The Traitor
by ErieDragon
Summary: Morla, a strangely gifted human, wakes in the care of a tauren village. She embarks upon a quest of discovery of both her powers and herself with the mentally deranged tauren Clef and the halftroll Lo'jar as her companions.
1. Chapter 1

Something new. I'll have my WoW back soon, and then all names will be better and more accurate. Until then, I'm bullshitting.**  
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**The Traitor**

**Chapter One**

They had been talking for days.

All the time they talked; they pointed at her but never laughed. They only spoke quietly and sometimes stroked her hair. She had been sitting against the cold bars for a while until they moved her to a bed. They fed her and kept her wrapped in blankets, and changed her bandages until the gashes, scrapes and slices in her had faded into bright scars.

She heard them in her dreams, for she spent days, maybe even weeks, in dreams, with intermittent consciousness.

Then Morla woke up.

-

Clef Stronghorn watched the creature sometimes when it was evening. He went hunting often with his two brothers, twins that were nearly warriors. Clef himself was rather too brutish to be a proper hunter and had poor aim; he couldn't be a priest, and he had, up to that point, shown no proficiency in melee weapons of any kind. He was the dud of one of the greatest families, of the most prestigious history, in Bloodhoof. His father trained kodo and his mother sold goods of the hammer. He envied her mining and blacksmithing abilities.

After he came back and when the sun had begun to sink, turning the sky into the most beautiful of purples and oranges, Clef went into the tent where the old medicine woman lived. She would stare ahead and sometimes she would sleep, and she never asked questions. He went over to the great cage that his mother had designed and watched the strange animal, the stranger, the enemy, that had been found and brought back to the village.

It was a human. She had been mauled horribly by a lion before one of the village's scouts came along and managed to tear it away. The bodies of her parents had lain nearby, each carrying packs and little else. Where they had been going or where they had come from was a mystery, but the scout had brought the tiny unconscious thing back to the village, where she had been healed.

Often, admiring her smallness and the soft, patient, calm expression on her face, Clef would sit beside the bars where she lay on her cot and stroked her hair. It was unlike any sort of Tauren hair, smooth and soft, thin and of a dirty gold.

The village knew of Clef's fascination with her and kept her for his benefit. He was a little socially inept, some would say, simply to be kind. He kept within a very sharp bubble and no one dared to approach it. His interactions with others were limited because of his inability to properly communicate. He stuttered often and used faint hand signals, but generally refused to speak. Bloodhoof wondered what would befall the teenager sometimes. Other times, they watched him and waited for something amazing.

Clef stood by the side of the tent, watching the old medicine woman when he heard a noise. The girl often breathed hard in her rough dreams and coughed when she seemed awake, but never had she focused on the world around her for long enough to live in it. Instead her eyes would flutter open and she would smile, or breathe things, and then disappear once more into the dark world.

Today, at the end of a summer of hot days and dry grass, the funny thing opened its bright brown eyes wide and sat up with unexpected ease. Clef watched her and she watched him in return, no emotion present on her round, unmarred face. She reached out a hand to him and then before it reached the bars, she drew it back and held it to her, surprised, as if she had been burned, when she hadn't touched a thing beside air. Then she rose up off the bed and looked at herself, leaving her fur blankets behind, and examined the scars that covered her.

"Awake," Clef said, managing the word easily. He knew that when the time came, he would be able to speak to her. This was a rare occurrence. The creature only stared at him blankly and then sat back down on her cot. She brushed her bare skin and took a deep breath. Clef looked over at the medicine woman, whose eyes had glazed. The little human crawled back beneath her blankets and went to sleep.

The teenage Tauren went out and found his mother, who was nearby at her anvil. He sat down near her, some feet from the great oven, and opened his mouth to speak. After a moment of looking for the words, he said, "The human thing," and his mother paused to look at him.

"What about it?" she asked, and patiently waited for his response.

"It's woken up." They exchanged looks, and his mother set down her great hammer and nodded her head.

"I didn't think it would," she said, "Nobody did." A bit spent, Clef only nodded his head and looked over at the tent. "Why don't you watch her, Clef? She doesn't seem very dangerous. Maybe let her out, if she can walk."

Clef nodded his great head and stood up again, and went back to the tent to see that the medicine woman had finally risen and was watching the human through the bars of the large cage. The human, in turn, was sitting on her bed and looking right back at the old tauren. Clef walked between them and opened the door, not once looking at his elder, and had to kneel down to get any way inside the cage. He thought his big form might frighten the girl, who was certainly fragile, but instead she stood up, with an animal skin draped over her, and was in front of him.

"Come," he commanded, and immediately grabbed her with one great hand. Her mouth opened like she might scream, but no sound came and so Clef proceeded to draw her out and into the open.

--

Morla was quite fascinated. The great black beast, with its incredible black, ridged horns, led her by the arm around the quaint little village. There was a lake that partially surrounded it and plains that spread out like a fan, with only a bit of it rimmed by mountains. These were behemoth teeth, jutting upward, with caverns and gashes pockmarking their surface. She stared up with lips parted in a faint 'O.' When she lingered too long, her captor jerked on her arm and she stumbled forward to follow.

At last they rested, having seen most of the village with the ox-creature pointing and talking in cut and stuttered phrases. Others of his race were all around, gathering to watch, muttering to one another and looking at her with great big curious eyes. They didn't seem hostile, at least, but Morla still hung back from them as the big black furry one stood over her. One of the monsters stepped forward, a brown one with curled horns and intricate robes, and leaned down. It spoke to her and she held up her hands, and touched it on the nose. There the fur was fine and soft, and then, the memories came to her, and she hugged it tightly.

--

The story of the strange human girl stopping the chief of Bloodhoof mid-sentence was a popular one, until she learned to understand them, and then the tauren didn't speak of it while she could hear.

Morla was dumb as a kodo; she couldn't utter a word, or even a sound. She was eight years old, she told Clef, when the scout saved her from the lion.

"Well," said Clef, sitting with her by the lake, holding an enormous radish soaked in sauce. He chewed it thoughtfully and swung it around by the stalk, and took another bite, his big square teeth crushing it to invisible pieces. "You can't stay here forever," he told her.

Morla drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She was ten years old now. When she remembered her birthday, she remembered her mother's screams as the woman was torn and eaten. She cried, and the next day Clef brought her a little doll his younger sister had made. Loulo was simply queenly.

"What about other people?" asked Clef. Morla looked at him, a bit with sadness, a bit with confusion. "I don't want you to leave," he clarified, and spoke especially slowly, for he had become nervous. "What I mean is that..."

Morla shook her head and stood up, and began the game of charades that Clef knew so well. "Well, yes, humans are enemies," he agreed, drawing up his shoulders. "But they are your kind." The girl sighed and sat down again. Clef rested a hand on her head and ruffled her hair. "I guess, not now."

Morla lived with the old medicine woman, still in the cot, but without the iron bars. The woman spoke to her sometimes and showed her how to cure mushrooms and mix herbs. Together they had developed a primitive sort of sign language, and Morla used it sometimes when Clef was in one of his moods.

Once, the girl had been out walking, when a scout found her and nearly killed her on sight. This one was from Thunder Bluff and had not known better; another scout came along and found her, and brought her home.

Clef's brother, one of the twins named Maine—the other being Paine—went to Clef and said, "Look, she's your charge," and stomped one hoof. "You've got to watch her, unless you want her eaten like a dog." Maine walked around his younger brother and told him, "Don't fall down on the job, if you want to keep her."

Clef held Morla's wrist so tightly in his hand during this short lecture that it began to hurt, and the little girl began to breathe harder, and began to try to take her arm back. But Clef squeezed harder and tried to reply to his offending brother, only managing: "D-d-don't t-tell me wha-what to do!" He squeezed so hard that he lifted Morla inches up off the ground, so her feet dangled and her toes sought floor. "D-d-don't tell me anything!" He was shouting, his words slow, difficult, difficult to speak and difficult to understand. Clef began to tremble all over and Loulo was telling her brother, "Let her down, now, let her down."

Clef would not listen, and he shook Morla like a doll, and she rattled like a doll. His voice was hysterical, and he began to lash with one great big arm, inside the tent, and became more aggravated while his brother and sister tried in vain to calm him.

The coal-black Tauren roared when Morla bit her teeth into his hand, and he threw her. She harmlessly fell but she did lie for a moment in a ball, crumpled in much the way paper would be. Clef had raged for a moment longer until Loulo going to the little human's aid distracted him, and then he became normal once more. He walked over to the two and stood for a moment, silent, with Maine looking behind him.

Now when Clef was in a mood, Morla would touch his hand and sign to him. "Be calm," she would say, "Be one with the Earth Mother. She wants your calm." He would usually take her hand in his and his fury would melt away. There was certain ability in her fragility.

While they were standing on the beach, Clef picked up his human girl, for that's what they called her, and put her on his shoulders where she took hold of his horns for support. They walked around in circles and when Clef told her, "They're training me to be a warrior," Morla raised her arms and cried, "Halloo! Halloo!"

Clef had asked her, "What is your name?" She had not understood then; but he heard her name on the wind and spoke it to her, and she smiled. It was one of the only Morla smiles anyone had ever seen.


	2. Chapter 2

_First note: the writing was choppy, I know. It's supposed to be. It was called mood style. The time for that part is confusing because it's all supposed to run together until something definitive happens, which is this chapter._

_Second note: Sorry about the Halloo thing. It is changed now, I just forgot to add two words when I wrote it originally._

_Third note: It's short. The next one may not be so much, but also don't expect it as soon. I had some free time on my hands._

**The Traitor**

**Chapter Two**

Bloodhoof village was generally a quiet place. There were fights with goblins and other creatures of burden, but they were rare. Scouts had begun to report, however, the appearance of dwarves in the mountains in small mining camps. They were a muted threat; their advance was little and they carefully stayed away from too much interaction with the defensive forces.

Morla was twelve when they came.

Clef was in the middle of his warrior training. He had begun last year and would finish the next; focusing worked wonders for the tauren. He was calmer now in a noticeable way and he threw fits less often. He was also maturing, having just turned nineteen. When they were together, Clef and Morla, the great beast could sit still for long periods of time and talk, or fish, or meditate. He had overcome his awkwardness with the axe and now wielded it easily. Morla could sometimes walk out in the morning from the medicine woman's tent and see her companion cleaving melons.

They were sitting outside, watching the kodo and throwing them apples when Morla saw them. They streamed down from the mountain in a clear trail of black, like many ants, far away at first and growing larger as they moved. The girl tugged on Clef's arm and when he turned, she pointed up at what she saw: the dwarves coming down like fire through the trees. Because of the morning sun, which was barely over the top of the mountains, the cliff face they tread was in shadow, and Clef had trouble seeing them at first.

Immediately Clef yelled wordlessly at the kodo trainer standing nearby. "What is it?" he called. Clef gestured toward the mountain and managed to say, "Dwarves! Coming!"

By the time even a part of the village had roused the dwarves were on them, flooding into the town in numbers no one had even considered anticipating. It was a threat that should not have been ignored—this was the thought in the mind of the few warriors and scouts that had gathered by the time the tide had overtaken them. Shouts rang out in the village and Clef and Morla still stood by the kodo, watching. Clef had his axe with him and unstrung it from his back, and went toward four dwarves approaching.

Morla crouched, her blood pumping hotly through her veins. She felt it bubble around her ears and cheeks, warming up her brain until it didn't function properly any longer. There were images, and she opened her mouth wanting to cry at Clef, who axed through two dwarves at once with an immense swing. They split, not smoothly, with skin and muscle ripping into a brief burst of blood. Clef's arms and chest were shiny with the life liquid after he had slaughtered the other two dwarves, beheading one and cleaving the other in the gut, which burst, and spilled entrails onto the ground as he fell. He breathed hard and stepped back, blood dribbling off of him onto the dirt and staining it black. The two looked up and Clef cried out when four more dwarves jumped on him, and another half-dozen swarmed around his legs. He slashed at them, throwing a few, but they easily picked themselves up and rejoined the fray like rats or dogs.

Shivering, Morla could only watch. She tried to cry out even harder than before when the kodo master was taken as well, doing far better than Clef but still being overtaken by the dwarves' sheer numbers. How they hadn't seen her yet, crouching beside the fence, Morla didn't know, or consider; she watched open-mouthed and pale-faced as a dwarf buried a knife into Clef's thigh and the tauren roared. The sound of it went into her and she felt an indescribable flooding of searing heat rip through her chest, exploding and flaming into her head and feet, hands and neck. It roared and swirled behind her eyeballs so they burned and she had to close her eyes to accommodate the pain. She saw her arms grow red where the veins had once been blue, and the skin of her hands was pink.

Everything around Morla slowed then. The air, even, stopped moving, and she breathed deeply to keep the air flowing through her lungs. She looked up again, now able to see once more, for the pain seemed to have dissipated. The scene before her had halted completely. Clef was bent over, blood coagulating around the knife still embedded in his leg. One dwarf was wrestling with his horn and another was wielding yet another knife; ten feet away, a dwarf had a gun aimed at his head. Two other of the horrid creatures were aiming at him from the ground with axes, planning to cut out his legs from under him.

Morla looked at her hands and they now glowed a very unnatural red, almost emitting light. She gasped and tried to draw away when the redness suddenly engulfed her fingers and seemed to come out from them. The redness turned into great balls that began to move and wave like flames. Morla howled when she felt the pain again and then there was an immense sound, that vibrated her bones.

A small hand, with long nails, came up from the ground between some blades of grass. The fingers wiggled a bit and she saw the skin was red; then a creature came up, using the hand to lift himself over the edge of... something, Morla wasn't sure what. She watched, silent as she always would be, as a small, dangly creature, almost two feet tall, stretched itself out like a cat just waking up from a nap. It opened its big eyes and looked at her, with long ears twitching, and smiled.

"I'm here to help," it said, and then time resumed.

Creatures burst out of tents; the air; the ground; they sprung out from everywhere, all kinds of them, red and blue and purple, all of them deformed and wild and crying horrible, angry cries. The dwarves approaching Clef only saw the demons when they lit him on fire.

The little imp that had first come walked slowly, agonizingly slowly, to where Morla stood, now pale and struggling to stand. It took her hand in its own and rolled over her fingers, and looked up. "It's taken care of," it told her, and licked her wrist with its long, thin, forked tongue. Morla gasped at the pain that caroused from the lick up her arm. It burned and she saw that there was a small pinkish-white mark, with little black seared edges. She stared at the imp and it stared back, and then pointed up.

Tauren were trying to attack the demons now, which had quite obliterated all of the attackers, even those still on the mountain. There were little fires every place a dwarf had burned up like a straw house. Seeing the work was done, the creatures, seemingly immune to the attacks of the noble tauren, evaporated in little wisps of smoke.

Morla looked up at Clef, who was bleeding, and watching her in return. She fainted, and the imp disappeared.

--

One warrior had died, two were injured. The village was in a kind of shock. Clef had taken Morla to her cot, where she had awoken with her best friend sitting beside her, leaned over. She noticed that the once sharp point of one horn was gone; it had been chipped off. His leg was bandaged properly and he didn't appear too troubled by the wound. When Morla sat up and rubbed her face, the tauren turned to her and wrapped her in his great furry arms, tightening them until she gasped. He dropped her back to the cot and stood up, wringing his hands, and then left the tent.

Morla followed him out and saw the scene.

Covering the village were wooden stakes, put in the ground, tops adorned with flowers and charms—Morla knew this kind, they were charms asking that the Earth mother accept back whoever had died into her arms so they could successfully become soil once more. A few tauren were there, going about the village, but they were hunched over and the lot of them looked wary and had a certain haggard appearance to them. When Morla came out, those she had known saw her and steadily walked away, keeping their heads down.

Clef stood beside her for a moment, and then led her without words toward the kodo pen where she had been when the attack came. Morla smiled when she saw Paine walking toward them, but she felt a vague emotion of dread when she saw that his face was hardened and his walk was square and unyielding; Loulo sat by the door of the Stronghorn family's tent, holding her knees in her arms and keeping her eyes away.

Paine pushed Clef out of his way, and the younger tauren let his brother, although his face was contorted with irritation. Paine came up far closer than Morla would have liked him to be and grabbed her by the back collar of her shirt—by her scruff—and lifted her up without difficulty to look at him face-to-face.

"You called them, I know," he said. His voice was rough and scaly, pained to come out and pained to hear. His lips were pursed together, and when he spoke again, his eyes became clouded and his eyebrows tilted in what appeared to Morla to be pity, or perhaps regret. "The elder wishes to see you."

This raised the girl's hopes. She didn't know what she had done; she remembered the imp only vaguely, but she hadn't consciously brought the demons. They just had sprouted through her, as if she had channeled them with her very body, and they were the fire that had laced through her blood. It wasn't as if she had meant to do it. It had only somehow... happened. Paine scratched his head for a moment and then grabbed Morla by the arm. Clef moved to take her back—and looking at his face, he would have attacked his own brother to do so—but Morla shook her head and gave him the sign that she would be all right.

There were some tauren, mostly older ones—the heads of families—gathered around Morla's tent where she lived with the medicine woman, or the elder. Paine dragged her inside past his father, the head of the Stronghorns, and into the tent.

There was a fire in the middle and Morla saw that the cot she had been sleeping on only minutes before was gone. The medicine woman sat in front of the fire, with two other elders to either side of her, with the heads of the families standing at the entrances to the tent. Morla was shoved into the middle, nearly falling back when flames from the fire licked her legs. With care she stepped back and clasped her hands together, and turned around to see that Clef had managed to come partially inside, enough to see the proceedings.

"The village of Bloodhoof thanks Morla Stronghorn for her valiant success in the battle of yesterday. She defended us with honor and saved our tribe." There were murmurs amongst those standing around, but the old woman silenced them by raising one hand and clenching it into a fist. Then, she took out a small leather bag, removing a handful of dust from it, and with a practiced, elegant flick of her wrist, salted the fire with the dust.

The flames morphed, growing and shrinking with an unnatural speed. Morla stepped back when they seemed to arc towards her and heads formed; they growled and opened their wide jaws, and snapped their teeth like vice grips. Paine and Maine prevented Clef from entering the tent behind her.

"But our village is a peaceful one, and our tribe is a tribe of the Earth mother. For this reason, we cannot tolerate the unnatural of evil and its denizens." The medicine woman, until now, had kept her eyes closed and seemed to be in a meditative state as she spoke. She opened them when she addressed Morla again and focused her glassy blind eyes on the silent human girl in front of her, who managed to sit still while the flames growled and roared at her, spitting sparks on her clothes. "Those who associate with demons are natural enemies of the tauren. We cannot tolerate your presence in this peaceful village. In accordance with our laws, I hereby ban you from Bloodhoof and forbid you ever to return, unless you have evidence that your body has been purged of its netherworld powers."

Clef, then, managed to press past his brothers and scoop up the surprised girl. An elder and two family heads moved to stop him, but the medicine woman raised her hand, palm flat, and they became very still.

"Clef Stronghorn," she addressed him. He turned to her with widened, angry eyes, and she smiled. "You will care for this girl, and go with her. But as a beloved son of Bloodhoof and the Earth mother, you may return whenever you wish." The elder then took another leather bag from a small chest beside her and offered it to him. Clef hesitated a moment before taking it.

"Come here, child," she told him. Setting down Morla, and looking at her to make sure no one would try to harm her, Clef went toward the woman and kneeled down. She whispered in his ear.

"Take this to Cairne Bloodhoof when she is ready. While we may not want her, someone else may." She put the bag into his hand and clasped his fingers over it. "Now go. I trust you are confident in your training?"

Clef nodded his head. "Good." She shooed him away and he quickly took Morla's hand in his, pushing past his brothers and father without sparing them a second glance. As the human passed Maine looked down and she saw a smile flicker across his face, and in it she could read: "Take care. We will miss you."

On the edge of the village, when Clef and Morla had slowed to a walk, still hand-in-hand, Loulo came out from behind a fence. She was mostly white with black spots, and a black head with small, brown and white horns. Nostrils flared and eyes red and shining with unshed tears, Loulo took the girl from her brother and hugged her tightly. She sniffed and moaned, "I don't know why they're making you leave us," she murmured. "They would never do this to one of our own."

"She isn't one of us," was Clef's reply, and Morla, of course, said nothing. Morla did however pat her surrogate sister on the arm before stepping back. She signed, "I'll see you again someday," and kissed Loulo on the soft fur of her nose. The tauren nodded and Clef took his charge once more. He nodded to his sister.

"We will write to y-you," he managed, and then turned on his heel out of the village, toward the Barrens, with Morla following behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Traitor**

**Chapter Three**

Morla was fifteen when they met Lo'jar.

It was easy to hide in the Thousand Needles. Clef caught and skinned hyenas, and cut them into squares; Morla, with the skills Louro had taught her in tailoring, sewed them together and made for them a thick tent, covering it with fat oils to protect it from the rain, if it ever came. Clef mined metals like his mother and occasionally sold them. They lived rather simply, hunting or avoiding any of those who might be wandering through.

Clef tested his skills as often as possible. He and his axe had grown close; they were compatriots in battle, understanding of one another. He improved it constantly, lowering the weight of the handle while ordering incremental increases in the size of the iron edge. Clef swung it like it was only a small hunting knife, with speed and efficiency. The purple hyenas became too easy for him, and the few alliance wanderers that came through either died by his hand or tried to escape him.

To solve this problem, Morla had learned to create traps of the most intricate kind. Some would lure greedy alliance miners; others presented opportunities to adventurous humans. But never did she experience the same painful heat as that fateful day—until they met Lo'jar.

Half-elf and half-troll, Lo'jar was a sad tale, Morla thought. He didn't think so.

When Morla woke up at sunrise, Clef was sitting on the edge of the needle they had settled on. It was tall enough that should others be residing on another needle, their tent would still be invisible. The tauren, with hair uncut and rolling down his great big shoulders, was polishing his axe after sharpening the blade with one of his various tools. Morla came out and stood behind him. This was a ritual of the summer: when the needles were at their coolest in temperature—the sunrise—they came out of the generally closed-off tent to enjoy the weather and the great watercolors of the morning light on the sky. It began at the bottom of the horizon with a vague purplish-red, and grew tithe morning into an intense orange, until the sun peeked over the tops of the distant needles and became too blinding to watch any longer.

As the light began to appear and the starry black sky began to alleviate into a medium blue, Morla sat down on the rock behind Clef and began to braid his hair for the day. She began at the top, combing it with a bone comb she had made, and then tied sinew strings into the hair as she made it into a careful design, finishing at the bottom with an untamed burst that rested in the middle of his back. Some hair that fell around his eyes and forehead was still too short, and went wild about his ears. When the girl was done with his hair she took out her skin full of oil, and rubbed it on his horns until they shined. The tip of one had grown back and she even sharpened them occasionally.

Just then Morla heard the sound of footsteps, and quickly jumped up to look over the side away from where Clef sat. Far down she saw a bluish-purple humanoid, indefinable from the distance. She turned to her pulley system and pulled a series of ropes until the hangar came up. Tying the anchor, she fixed the speed—so she wouldn't plummet, and also so that she wouldn't hang in mid-air when she took hold of the hangar—and sailed silently down the side of the needle.

Once she reached the last ridge, the girl ran around to where she had seen the creature approaching and crouched behind a scraggly bush.

Upon closer inspection, Morla saw that his skin was more of a silvery purple. The hair was wild and of a deep wine color. Two small tusks emerged from the sides of his mouth and caused his thick lips to purse. From this, she knew immediately he must be a troll, but he lacked both the incredible height, build, and color of a usual one. He also walked with an oddly graceful stride, so much that Morla was riveted to him and couldn't bring herself to look away, until he walked right into one of her traps.

With the jelly of sea-plants from the burning pond, she had made long invisible strings and tied them across the narrow space between two great big needles. She had gotten the idea from spider webs. When the troll walked into them, he flashed around a confused look and tried without much effort to step back. When the jelly stuck to him, however, the troll began to move a little more, and when there was still no give, he thrashed violently and began to shout vicious obscenities.

Morla stepped out from behind the bush and laughed a little, causing the troll's great ears to twitch, and he turned to look at her. His eyes grew wide and his mouth spread into a nasty smile. Though there was a sword strapped to his back, one that he couldn't access, he pulled a hidden knife from his bracers and began to hack away at the jelly ropes. Morla's smile faded as he kept his eyes on hers, the wicked smile growing wider as he began to free himself.

Having no way to call to her companion, she ran back to the pulley and saw that she hadn't anchored the hangar at the bottom and it had drifted up too high for her to grab. The human girl turned around then, her face beginning to change into an expression of panic as the small troll pulled loose from her trap and replaced her knife, taking out the immense sword on his back instead, which he wielded easily in one hand. She took off at a run up the needle, thankful that the ridge ran up the side of it in a sloping spiral. Morla sprinted, knowing that the troll was behind her and not willing to pause for any moment to see if he was still behind her. His footsteps grew louder and she tried to run faster, looking up and moaning inside at how far she still had to go.

She found the hangar halfway up and grabbed onto it, tugging the string hanging a foot away to make the pulley move. Morla flew upward, now having a moment to look at her follower, and he stared back at her with incredulity. At the top she swung off and ran over to where Clef still sat. She grabbed his shoulder and shook him, signing madly that someone was after her when he turned around.

"Followed you? Up here?" She quickly nodded her head and turned to where the spiral reached the top. Immediately Clef pulled out his axe and crouched. She signed that it was a troll and he sighed. "I'll just have to talk." He shot her a look. "Just leave it to me." Morla rolled her eyes and adjusted her loose white cotton shirt, stepping back in case the troll did decide to do away with her.

Eventually he came up over the top and his hasty rage stopped abruptly when he saw the immense tauren looming over him.

"There was a human here," the troll said, lowering his sword. He paused when he saw Clef not do the same. Then he noticed Morla crouching and furrowed his brows in confusion.

"The human's mine," Clef replied.

The troll smiled. "Your toy?"

"Sure," he said, non-committal, and seeing the other's apparent amiableness, he attempted a smile and lowered his axe. Morla, confused—and still not very well versed in Orcish—came up behind Clef and touched his arm. He swatted her away and gave her a meaningful look, and she stepped back.

The troll laughed at the exchange and came forward, putting his sword away and offering his hand. "I'm Lo'jar," he said, and Clef hastily shook the hand and stepped back.

"I'm Clef," the tauren replied. He rubbed his bicep nervously and the troll smiled.

"Where'd you find her?" he asked, pointing at Morla, who sat by the cliff with her feet drawn up to her chest. The troll grinned.

"A-ah, well," Clef stuttered, eyes shifting into his mood. "Actually, she's not human."

Morla looked at him with incredulity. She signed, "That was the best you could come up with?" He shrugged his shoulders at her and the troll looked oddly between them.

"Is she one of those? Who can change their appearances?" Clef looked at him and then smiled a great, fake smile, and nodded his head.

"Oh, y-yeah," the tauren told him, "but she can't talk." Lo'jar nodded his head but his eyes remained a little suspicious. He looked over at Morla.

"Ah, sorry about earlier," he said to her. She stood up, taking on the role of a Horde who was indeed wearing only a disguise. She crossed her arms and nodded. Lo'jar looked between them. "But what was with the trap?"

Morla signed hastily to her companion and he spoke to the troll. "She likes to trap Alliance when they go by," he said, "but her disguise hadn't worn off yet when she saw you."

"How long does it take? Can't she dispel the spell?"

"Ah... no. She's not that good yet." Morla was impressed with Clef's grasp on the situation. He hadn't stuttered so much that he couldn't be understood, and he hadn't frozen up yet. "It may not wear off for another few hours."

"I see..." Lo'jar looked at her, and quite suddenly he pulled out his sword and lunged towards her. Morla opened her mouth to scream and Clef almost didn't reach her in time, but he reached out his axe and nearly split the sword in half with the impact. Lo'jar stumbled back and Clef jumped on him, pinning him easily to the ground with his axe positioned over the troll's head.

"I d-d-don't want to k-kill you," Clef cried, trembling wildly. "T-t-touch her and y-you're... y-y-you're dead!" The troll's eyes widened.

"She is a human, then," he murmured, apparently comfortable with being at the unpredictable tauren's mercy. Morla came up beside them and tried to touch Clef's arm, but he shrugged her away, eyes still on his enemy.

"She's m-mine."

"Let me up, then. I won't hurt her if you don't kill me." The troll caught on quickly to the tauren's deficiency. While Clef couldn't be bested by strength, he could be compromised with easily, and Morla couldn't convince him otherwise while he wasn't focused on her.

"Oh, o-okay." Clef carefully raised himself up and the troll followed suit, jumping back to put space between them. Lo'jar dropped his sword to the ground and raised his hands.

"I won't do anything," he said, and Clef seemed convinced enough to replace his axe on his back.

--

Lo'jar nodded his head. "So then, how long have you two been here?"

"Three years, about," Clef replied, "this is our third summer."

"Why choose the Thousand Needles?"

"It's the farthest away from society." Morla was working on another toy, trimming pieces of wood as a creature they had caught the day before roasted over the fire. It was midday and Clef had just finished explaining, rather slowly and brokenly, his and Morla's story.

"She's loyal to the Horde, then?"

Clef nodded his head and patted the girl on the head. "So then, how do you know she really does have these powers, if she's never used them again?"

Morla signed and Clef told him, "She hasn't needed to."

Lo'jar observed her for a moment. "What if you did?" he said to her. She gave him a curious look. "Here's what I'm saying: if you really have the abilities of an advanced warlock, why not use them? You could be a bounty hunter. You would have the element of surprise! There are a lot of things you could do, if you could convince a chief to accept you, though that in itself would be difficult, if not impossible."

"It really was she," Clef interrupted unexpectedly. He took Morla by the arm to pull her towards him and indicated that Lo'jar should look. "I w-wouldn't, well, know, but y-you might," he said, and showed him her wrist. The white mark was still there, looking as fresh as it had the day it appeared, white inside and seared black around the edges. Lo'jar nodded his head.

"Though I've never seen many warlocks, you can see the shape here is familiar, at least to me. Though I can't tell you what it is, I've seen it before." He shrugged his shoulders. Morla drew back hastily from the situation and Clef only nodded his head. Lo'jar looked between Clef and Morla, and then laughed. "What a pair you two make! You'll never get anything done with a mute girl and an inept tauren speaking for her." He looked pensive, stroking his chin.

"I know!" Morla jumped at the suddenness of the troll's exclamation. "Teach me your language, give me a part of your profits, and I'll help you."

The human and tauren companions looked at one another. Clef explained to her in greater detail in Taurahe what Lo'jar had told them, and she seemed to contemplate this for a number of moments.

"But what really can he do for us?" Morla signed to Clef.

"Talk, for one," he replied. "He is also a shaman, I can tell. I won't always be able to defend you." He brushed his braid away from his shoulder.

"I don't want to stay here forever," Morla signed.

"Indeed. He m-might be able to he-help us."

"How can we trust him? He might turn me in for a reward."

Lo'jar was picking at his nails when Clef turned to him. "H-how can we trust you?" asked the tauren.

Snorting, Lo'jar rubbed his face, and pulled away his hand. The movement was deliberate; he pulled down his sleeve over his hand and repeated the action when both Morla and Clef were watching. On his sleeve was paint the color of his skin, and where the paint had been were long, silver marks. They surrounded his eyes, which Morla now noticed glowed slightly from the pupil, a glow that was echoed in the whites near the edges. The silver spread up and away from his eyelashes toward his ears, and down his cheeks like thick, elegant spider legs. He rubbed off the rest of the makeup and at once she knew.

"He's got elf in him," she signed, and Clef stared at the troll, and repeated her message.

"Quick little thing," Lo'jar replied with a guarded smile. "I'm half. That's my big secret, the thing absolutely no one can know about me besides you." He took a packet out of his jacket and opened it, reapplying the paint to his face and covering up the beautiful markings once more. Morla nodded her head and looked up at him.

"All right," she signed. "We'll enter into a contract with you."

--

They spent two months working on Morla's "powers." In the meantime, Lo'jar learned her sign language and helped her to make it more intricate and concise, while brushing her up on her understanding of Orcish.

Clef and Lo'jar took the girl for her first test down to the wyvern nests along the cliff walls. They sat her down a short distance from where a number of the parents congregated. The careful shaman had taken an egg and put it in her lap, instructing her to wait. Lo'jar and Clef walked up beside the group and all at once, they were noticed. The wyverns rushed toward the two invaders, who led them to where Morla waited. Giving her no warning, they rushed past her, leaving her to stare with wide, terrified eyes as the creatures came.

The troll watched for a moment as the wyverns surrounded the girl. At first he waited with confidence, and then he grew impatient and a bit worried. Clef had opposed the idea from the start, but now he was furious. When they were nearly about to rush in, Morla came sprinting out from between two attacking wyverns and went between the shaman and the warrior, dodging them completely and continuing to run.

Lo'jar sighed and tried to think of another plan.

It was late at night when the troll went out of the tent and sat on the edge of the needle. They had tried putting her up against every kind of villain and every time, she ran away or Clef went in to save her. He would have to set up a situation around the tauren to make her use her powers.

While Clef slept Lo'jar took the girl away in her sleep, knowing he wouldn't have to worry about her screaming. He carried her down the needle and at one point she awoke, and tried to struggle, but he only drew his hood tighter around his face and pinned her against his shoulder. Eventually she gave up and only hung loosely.

Eventually he found the steaming lake he was looking for and waded out into the middle. He tied the girl's hands together at her back and placed her on a rock so she was underwater but her face remained above the surface. He climbed up onto a rock just above the lake and waited.

A boiling elemental saw her and motored through the water toward where she sat, helpless. Morla wasn't sure what to think: she knew that it had something to do with the sneaky shaman's quest to bring out her powers, but whether the hooded creature was him, she wasn't positive. This ambiguity frightened her and she didn't know if anyone would be saving her if something went wrong. Even she didn't know if she really had any powers at all—in fact, she thoroughly believed she didn't. What had happened in Bloodhoof was inexplicable, and no more than a vague memory to her.

Morla began to panic when the elemental was nearly on top of her, and two more appeared out of the water. She imagined what it would be like to die, unable to scream and without saying goodbye to Clef, the only person she could remember ever loving. Her parents were a distant and unimportant idea, while the tauren was the most important part of her childhood. He was the brother she never had.

Time seemed to slow down and Morla knew she would die—this was a sign of it. She would have to experience her death in slow motion. This particular thought horrified her, as she remembered rather vividly how her parents died and how the lion had almost destroyed her. She imagined that pain multiplied by a hundred times and her heart clenched painfully in her chest.

They were walking, away from all civilization. She was a danger, her village had said. So they sent her away, and her parents went with her to find the farthest, while safest, place to leave her. When the lion killed her parents, Morla realized now that she didn't horribly mind. The Stronghorns were more of parents to her than their own human counterparts ever were.

The memory became clearer as time slowed to a stop. The lion had taken her screaming mother and father apart, and she watched until the lion then came after her.

She remembered: the scout hadn't saved her; Alrash had. His name came to her immediately. She had known him, and he was why they threw her from her original village, and similarly from Bloodhoof. The scout hadn't mentioned that when they found her, though she was bloodied, the lion was inexplicably dead.

Morla looked up and saw the hooded figure sitting perfectly still on a rock above the water. From behind him peeked a red hand, still bright even in the nearly complete dark of the night. This time, the heat was soothing and comforting, and flowed through her into her hands and fingers. She called down the imp with her hands and he obeyed, hopping from the rocks to stand beside her.

"Now you know," he told her, and smiled his wild, sly smile. His ears twitched. "This is how to call me."

Morla nodded her head. "They'll come, if you want them to," and he swished his hand. The spirits the mute had seen in Bloodhoof appeared again, and when time normalized, she saw the hooded figure jump at the sudden arrival of the demons.

She watched them obliterate the first elemental easily. She felt as if they were an extension of herself, obeying commands that she only had to think or imagine. Their fire and power was her weapon, and they gave themselves to her willingly. Their limbs were hers; their wills were hers. They were merely tendrils of her mind, stretched out and existing as denizens of destruction. It both thrilled and terrified her.

Alrash came and untied her hands, and when the rest of the elementals had either died or fled, she stood up. Unused, the demons all looked at her for one brief moment and then raised their hands or fingers or simple limbs into the air, and evaporated like droplets of water in the daylight.

Looking up at the hooded figure above them, her imp followed her eyes and shouted, "You can come out now, shaman!"

Lo'jar pulled down his hood and smiled at her sheepishly. "It worked, didn't it?" Morla rolled her eyes. The imp disappeared in a wisp of smoke and the troll raised his eyebrows. "Looks like you're ready then."

Morla signed, "I think you're right."


	4. Chapter 4

**The Traitor**

**Chapter Four**

Morla played a game with Lo'jar that he had taught her, using only her hands. It was a sort of gambling game, all based on luck and a little psychology. She took two more chocolate beans from her pile and pushed them into the one between she and Lo'jar—the pool.

"Go!" he said, and they both put down their hands. Morla silently whooped. Her dinosaur symbol had conquered Lo'jar's snake.

They were camping in the southern Barrens, having stopped for the night. The camp was set between two big rocks on the slope of a hill, above the open area where thunder lizards usually roamed, and were now lying down and snoring away.

Lo'jar was discussing with them, as he and Morla played, what his plan was. "I figure that our little human will need some practice before we go to Thunder Bluff. There are always bounties lying around, especially in Taurajo or the Crossroads; we'll get information on a few, and see what you can do," he said, poking Morla in the nose. She snorted and shook her head as if trying to rid herself of his germs. Lo'jar made a distasteful sound and looked away.

"B-bounty hunting is ha-hard," Clef put in, having finished stomping out the fire. The moon was rather bright and kept their game well lit.

"I've got practice there," Lo'jar assured the tauren. "After my father died, that was all I did. There are enough troublesome Alliance and renegade Horde—especially those pesky undead—to go around. I already know of some that I was after before I ran into you two unfortunate people." He made a "tsk" noise with his tongue when he lost again, and Morla collected the pot of beans. She sat back, not wanting to give the half-troll a chance to win them back, and began to eat.

"Then," Morla signed, "I get some practice, and we go see Cairne?"

"Exactly."

--

But Achsbor was going to make it difficult for them.

The orc huntress was wanted for killing two goblins venturing to sell their wares outside of Ratchet. The drawing of her posted was a small orc with a light olive skin. Her head was shaved besides an untamed black and red mohawk, arranged in all sorts of strange ways, and tied off at the back so it hung down between her shoulder blades. It was a profile picture, and one could easily see the menacing growl hovering on her thick red lips. There was a pelt draped around her shoulders and the poster told Lo'jar that she had a giant spider for a pet. He shivered. The half-troll hated spiders.

He relayed this information to Morla and Clef. The girl thought over it only briefly before agreeing to find the orc woman and kill her. She was wanted dead—the goblins offered a reward of twenty-five gold. It wasn't much, but it would fill their pockets.

Lo'jar thought that any orc who could take on one, not to mention two, of the well-trained Ratchet goblins would put up a decent fight against Morla's demons, and then he would be able to see if the girl was truly worth his time.

The troll had an idea of where to look first. He had a cousin on his father's side that he had stayed with for a few weeks before he left for the Thousand Needles. The cousin had returned from hunting in the Echo Islands for tigers and had found most of them already dead and skinned; when he came back, he heard that a good number of skins had been sold to the tailor and the chiefs were worried about the tiger populations. He went back to set up possible protections for the creatures, and had run into the jaws of a spider living on one of the larger islands in a den previously inhabited by tigers. This was a fair clue, Lo'jar thought. He couldn't believe his luck.

When they crossed into Durotar after stocking up on supplies—all of which Lo'jar had to buy—the troll put Morla into a hooded cloak. She complained bitterly, gesturing with her hands, but the troll ignored her and Clef tried to placate her by giving her cold water. The cloak was almost too much for her in the already burning heat. A passerby looked at them strangely and Lo'jar gave the other troll a threatening look, and he skittered away.

It took them three days of hard travel to reach the coast outside of Sen'jin village. There, they waited until dark to cross the water, for Morla found it impossible to swim with the wet hood hanging over her face. Lo'jar and Clef stayed to either side of her, for their feet touched the ground below the water's surface when she floated aimlessly on top. Each holding one of the girl's arms, the troll and the tauren managed to find the first island before day broke, and they slept through until the afternoon on the beach.

Lo'jar planned out the attack in his head: they would find the den, isolate the spider away from its master, kill it, and then seek out the orc that was probably hiding from the midday sun.

Instead, they were ambushed as they packed up after lunch.

The spider, hairy and red, tackled the shaman to the ground, having dropped down from one of the great palm trees. Two arrows shot into Clef's side and he howled, prying one out of his ribs while the other stuck in his hip. Morla immediately ran to her companion's aid, where her head was barely missed by another arrow.

Achsbor waited in the water, aiming at the human girl kneeling beside the tauren warrior. The hood had fallen off of her and the huntress could see clearly that the human was trying to pull the second arrow from the tauren's side. She hissed and saw that her spider was evenly matched with the odd-looking troll shaman. Being hunted made her irritable. She was the hunter!

She stepped closer to the island, standing on the sand of a raised inlet. Her arrow sailed past the girl and stuck in the tree behind her. The human didn't seem to notice and continued helping her friend, who roared and turned to look at Achsbor with black, angry eyes. His face contorted and when his aid pulled the arrow free from his hip, he drew out his great axe and moved to stand in front of the little blond thing.

Now that the situation looked slightly more under control—Lo'jar was fending off the poisonous jaws of the spider with increasing success, and Clef was ready to use his warrior's charge—Morla took a hold of herself and calmed down enough to see what must be done.

It was painful this time to draw out Alrash from the ground. He struggled a little and Morla felt as if her eyes would burn out of her skull, but when he came up onto the surface, she immediately was soothed. The imp leaped forward from between Clef's legs and without hesitating he released a great ball of flame into the unsuspecting orc. She cried out and fell backward into the water, sending splashes and sand up and over herself. The fire went out but the skin on the front of her was slightly singed, and she looked to be in a decent amount of pain.

Lo'jar thought the situation looked handled, now, with Morla's powers in the battle—though he did question why she hadn't summoned her netherworld army. Looking at her face he realized she in fact held little control over whatever was happening, and her imp was wild and haphazard. A feeling of dread came over the troll when the spider he had nearly backed into a corner leaped upwards, and over him, directly on top of the fragile human girl.

Achsbor cheered when Ura, her spider, took over and distracted both the troll and the tauren from her. She took the opportunity to land another two arrows into the warrior's leg and one in the shaman's arm. Another arrow was loaded and aimed at the troll's head, but suddenly, the water around her feet began to churn and it drew her attention.

The waves around the little island had turned black. From the sand around them burst up great flaming beings, burning a deadly red and letting off little breaths of pitch-colored smoke. Their arms were bound with gold bracers and their ambiguous heads lolled about on their shoulders. Achsbor could only watch, petrified, as one of the creatures hurled itself at her, unaffected by the water. She let loose one, two, and three arrows into it, but they went through and fell harmlessly to the ground behind the renegade spirit. On the island four more of the demonic elementals surrounded Ura, who was being barely repelled from the pathetic human by her imp.

Lo'jar and Clef both stepped back, bleeding, and watched as the spider was ambushed by Morla's summoned creatures. The spider writhed beneath them and only with a valiant effort did it force them away; then, with a high-pitched scream, it leapt over them and into the water, rolling and pedaling with all eight legs. They saw the hunter follow her pet, and when the flaming beings looked to follow her, Morla stood up, rubbed her head, and they evaporated.

It had happened too suddenly for the troll to process. Morla gave a silent groan and sat down once more, her imp dancing around her. Clef pulled the arrows from his leg and tossed them to the ground. He made no noise as he took out a bag and began to bandage himself. Lo'jar raised his hands and used his magic to work his own wounds.

The troll had assumed Morla was uninjured, and thus left her alone while he tended to himself. After a moment, though, he heard her hiss and saw that she was leaned over, clutching her chest. There was an immense spider bite in her chest and it had begun to swell and turn a flaming red. The imp had disappeared. Lo'jar called over Clef and the two looked over the wound nervously.

"Do you feel weak?" the shaman asked her. She shook her head. "Then it may not be poisonous, though I don't want to leave that up to chance." He leaned over her, summoning a handful of green light, and applied it to the wound. It closed up, but Lo'jar still had a nagging feeling that there was more to it than that.

They stayed on the island again that night to consider how next they would approach their target. "We were surprised this time," Morla signed, "we shall surprise her the next."

"How do you plan to do this?" Lo'jar asked her. She only shook her head and the three thought about it all night, the tauren and troll taking turns watching while the other slept.

In the morning, Clef went to wake up the sleeping girl and he shook her shoulders. Her head bobbed and her mouth drifted open, but she didn't move. Curious, he shook her again, and when there was no response, he called over Lo'jar to check her.

"She's still alive," the troll said, pushing back some of her hair. He sat her up and she seemed to come to consciousness for a brief moment. "What is it? Is it from the bite?" She vaguely signed something that neither of her compatriots could understand. Clef kneeled down and took her face in his big hands, and she opened her eyes.

"P-p-poison?" She nodded her head. Clef looked at Lo'jar and narrowed his eyes. "Heal her, sha-sha-shaman. Heal her." The tauren grit his teeth and gathered up his girl in his lap. She lay there like a rag doll, and her eyes closed again.

"I don't know how to heal poisons," Lo'jar replied calmly. He paced around them for a brief moment. "At least, not on their own. If I can get a sample of the poison that was used on her, I might be able to conjure up an antidote." The troll took Morla's hand up in his and jerked on it, so that she looked at him. "You're not dead yet. If you can kill that damn spider, I can fix you." Clef gave Lo'jar a sinister look, but the shaman ignored him and focused directly on the little blonde girl. With some effort she managed to look back at him and slowly nodded her head.

Lo'jar looked around when he felt a kind of pressure on him, as if part of the world had changed. When he looked back at Morla she was staring at him, and the eyes that were once a deep brown had taken on a reddish hue, and the troll noticed that Clef was no longer moving. Or breathing. There was no wind and the little waves were frozen the way they were. There was a crab on the beach, a little one that had a claw in the air mid-snap in an effort to threaten the group of travelers further up the island. Lo'jar saw all of this at once, and Morla smiled at him.

"They're coming," he heard her say, though her mouth didn't move, and he thought her voice sounded rather like a bell, clearly ringing. The hum of it charmed him, and then everything turned red.

When time resumed, Morla was standing, her hands outstretched on the sand. This sudden change surprised even Clef, who quickly jumped to his feet and, standing beside Lo'jar, watched to see what the human was so excited about.

They could see another small island where they were, but neither of the men had paid it attention, until now. From Morla's palms burst little blue demons, wailing and writhing about in what looked like sheer joy. Beside her had appeared the fiery imp, and it jumped into the water. The two little demons followed him and they went quickly up onto the other island some distance away. Morla's eyes closed and Clef reached forward in case she might fall, but Lo'jar stayed his hand. "She has it under control," he told the tauren.

There was a high-pitched animal scream when the island exploded. Fire burst from it, sending sand flying everywhere, sprouting up into the sky like a geyser. It rained down on the trio and only Morla seemed untouched by it. Following the blast came another wail, and the tiny demons they had seen before hovered above the sand still remaining, immense, nearly fifteen feet tall. One howled and lifted some bleeding, black spider legs, while the other raised up the creature's gory body, which held only one leg and part of its head. The orc huntress was nowhere in sight.

From Morla then came a noise like a whistle, and the demons flew toward her, dropping their goods at her feet. One writhed while the other shrunk, and eventually they both disappeared. The imp returned to her side and began hastily talking. Lo'jar and Clef covered their ears, pained by the sound of the hell-speak, while Morla was riveted by it and was nodding her head with whatever the creature told her. She pointed off toward the island and Alrash danced wildly for a minute, and then ran off back into the ocean.

Clef was morbidly fascinated with the girl's powers. When the fire had gone from her she immediately fell, and he only barely caught her with one outstretched hand. She stumbled backward and came to rest with her head on his knee. The spider body parts lay still on the beach, smoking and reeking horribly of a rotting thing. Lo'jar carefully went to it and using a knife, he cut open the bottom of the head that still remained and poured the liquid that came out of it into his hand. Sitting there, he drew up some energy in his other hand and swirled the black miasma. Eventually it began to coagulate and he cupped his hand up, so some dribbled out, while the rest pooled in his palm. The color became lighter and eventually he drew away his other hand.

The troll roughly pulled open Morla's mouth and tipped his palm over it so the light green liquid dropped onto her tongue, and then he closed her lips once more. She choked for a second and her eyes opened, rolling back into her head, before she swallowed. Clef pushed the troll away and drew her up against him so her face rested against the fur of his chest. After a few moments her eyes rolled back to normal and her mouth opened. She sat up and signed, "What an experience." Lo'jar laughed and Clef hugged her.

Alrash returned after some minutes and spoke again to Morla. She signed to her companions, "The orc is hiding out."

--

"I felt it," Lo'jar told the human girl, as they stood on the island, staring at one another. His goal was this now: he would train her to feel her powers, and use them. There was more to them than met the eye, the troll believed. "I felt it, when you called on them. Can you feel it yet?"

Slowly, Morla nodded her head, and began to sign. "That time there was a little thing in the bottom of me. I had to root around for it, but then it was in my hands and I pulled. Now I think I know where it is." Lo'jar smiled at her.

"Those are the words of a real magician," he said. "Can you do it now?"

Morla didn't move for a moment, still staring at him, and she signed, "I'll try." She stood back and closed her eyes, and for a few seconds she was completely still. Then, light built around her hands and arms, brightest around her fingers and tapering off to her shoulders. She looked at Lo'jar and he told her, "Try to harm me." At this, the girl's eyes grew wide, but he waved a hand at her and hit his head with a fist. "Don't worry, I won't break. I'm pretty strong, too, you know."

Morla nodded her head and raised her hands. In them, the light grew, and then there was a loud _pop_ and the light erupted into flames. The human looked down and appeared frightened of them for a moment, until she realized they weren't hurting her, and then she smiled. Opening her hands wider, Morla concentrated on her opponent and the flames immediately responded, crackling and covering her palms, until they were ready. Then, she loosed them and on cue, the troll simply lit on fire.

He let out a brief cry and jumped, some of the flames singing his hair, others his clothes, but he easily resisted them and they dissipated. Morla hurried over to him, the light in her now gone, and wanted to know how he was. "Don't worry," Lo'jar scolded her, "Go back and try again."

Mouth bobbing open like a fish, Morla stepped back and gave him an indignant look. She didn't need to focus for long that time; the flames came without effort and they turned into eager howling fires, ready to lunge. Morla aimed them this time and instead of merely transferring, they flew in great balls. She braced for the impact, suddenly afraid for her companion, but he raised one hand and a little blip of green blocked both flaming projectiles. They dissipated instantly. Lo'jar grinned at her and the girl growled.

Without warning Morla's whole body shifted colors. The rosy hue of her skin became dark, and green and black swirled around her arms. Instead of fire she summoned fierce black, balls of which rotated around her arms like dogs, growling and hissing. Holding her hands out in front of her, Morla released the shadow bolt and it careened at Lo'jar with incredible speed, a trail of green and black, bubbling and gurgling, following it. The troll almost didn't raise his defenses fast enough; he drew his enormous sword from his back and placed it in front of him; a bit of the blast singed the sides of his hands, which were unprotected.

"Whoa there," Lo'jar called, nervously lowering his sword. "I didn't expect that."

"I can see that," Morla signed back. She shook her head and sighed, feeling a little exhaustion.

"Need some water?" the troll asked, walking up beside her. He offered her the water skin and she took it.

--

Without her pet, the huntress shouldn't prove much more of a task to the three fighters. Clef, with his well-trained defensive skills, would lure her out; Lo'jar would set up totems and Morla would summon her offense. "This is your test," the troll told her.

Morla felt a certain sense of dread. She was not brave, she knew; in the face of danger, she ran. She didn't deny this simple fact. But she wanted to protect Clef, and to make Lo'jar proud of her. These seemed to matter more than anything else.

They stood in the water between the two islands, a space of less than a hundred yards. Clef held his great axe with one hand and pressed his other hand against his chest as he walked with small splashes. A few sea birds cawed, and there was a general ambience of waves rolling up onto the island beaches. It was near midday and the sun had climbed to its highest. There was blue sky and warm air.

Morla tensed when Clef walked up onto the beach of the enemy island. He stood and waited for a moment, and then looked around with his free hand covering his eyes to shield them from the sunlight. He appeared to see nothing and went forward again toward the den where the explosion had quite obviously occurred the day before. It would have seemed reasonable for the orc to leave the area after what had happened before, but they had kept a careful eye on the place and there had been no movement. Either she had remained, or the spider had been there alone. Lo'jar, the strategist, doubted the second.

Quite suddenly, Clef lurched, and looked down to see that he had stepped directly into a large metal trap. It clenched around his ankle with great teeth, buried in his flesh, and caused blood to gush from the open wounds. The trap failed, however, to bring him down, and he only stood with ox-like stability and stared at it in disbelief. Morla cried out to her friend and as she expected, no sound came out; she lunged forward to help him, but Lo'jar held her back with one big hand on her arm and she couldn't struggle past him.

Clef looked around and saw no movement. He didn't want to make himself vulnerable by leaning down to free himself from the trap, and his thick skin protected him more than he expected, so he waited instead for something to happen.

The tauren's well-developed, animal-like senses detected the huntress as soon as she appeared. She came up from the water on the other side of the island from Lo'jar and Morla, so they were invisible to her; the orc had an arrow aimed directly at Clef's head. With a shake of his ears he signaled his companions.

Lo'jar immediately summoned two totems, one of healing, and one of flame. He unsheathed his sword and indicated to Morla that she stay reasonably out of sight, and at a good enough distance to cast her spells. When the troll rushed in, she pulled up the little piece of herself and Alrash appeared in a puff of smoke.

"Yes?" Morla pointed at the orc, who was now firing arrows at Lo'jar while unsheathing her own axe. "It will be done."

The imp leaped at Achsbor, followed closely by two immense fire demons. The huntress was surrounded, it seemed, but she easily loosed an arrow into Lo'jar's side and rendered him momentarily harmless; she kept a reasonable distance from Clef, so his own axe was useless, and instead focused her efforts on the hell spawn that threatened her.

When the orc slashed at Alrash with her axe, she felt a pain in her legs, and then her back. She looked down and saw that she was on fire.

Morla had come up too far on the island and Achsbor saw her. As the human released a shadow bolt onto her enemy, the orc readied an arrow and without hesitation, it released. To Lo'jar and Clef, who watched, it happened in slow motion: Morla's eyes followed the arrow and its black tip, which embedded itself into her collar. It went directly through her and poked out on the other side, a little dark blood coating the sharp end as it protruded from her back. Morla then looked back up at the orc as she was obliterated by the great double fists of the two demons, having been rendered immobile by the shadow bolt. Her body seemed to implode, like she had swallowed dynamite, and it was the most violent death any of them had ever witnessed.

--

"Morla!" Lo'jar grabbed the girl, ignoring the arrow that was in his own side, and sat her down. Her mouth hung open and a little blood dripped from her lolling tongue. She was too young, he thought immediately. Too vulnerable. She wasn't cut out for this role.

"Th-this wh-whole idea is... is foolish!" Clef cried, loudly, stomping one great hoof. He had freed himself from the trap by breaking the whole stupid contraption with one blow of his immense axe. The tauren echoed Lo'jar's thoughts exactly. "She c-c-cant do th-this!" He stooped down and broke off the tip of the arrow, dropping it to the ground, and brushed some of Morla's hair from her face. Blood streamed down her back and front where the skin and muscle were penetrated.

"Let me," Lo'jar commanded, pushing the great brute out of the way. With a little more care he held the girl by the neck with one hand to steady her, and pulled out the arrow shaft with the other fist. She cried out silently and lurched forward, more blood rushing out her mouth. "It probably went by her throat, too," the half-troll said with a grimace.

"H-heal her, then!" Clef told him, giving him an incredulous look.

"I don't know how much I can do," replied Lo'jar calmly, hoping to rein in the beast. "Hold her up, so the wound doesn't get in the sand." Clef obeyed and wrapped his arms around the small human's waist, lamenting again and again that she hadn't the same thick skin as he. If she died, he wouldn't know what to do. Would he go home? Would he train harder? He remembered the bag he kept with him and wondered what was inside it. Would he look? Clef felt Morla's warm blood coat his chest and he closed his eyes, struggling to keep himself from panicking. It would be the end, if he freaked out now. His heart thundered in his chest and pumped blood past his ears, but he ignored the howling voice in the back of his mind and focused on the girl in his arms.

Lo'jar positioned one hand over the wound and funneled his life energy into it. He felt some of his own drain away and he gasped, now doubly aware of his own wound, but knowing that still, he would survive; the human's future wasn't as certain, and so he allowed her to take even some of his own life into her. She heaved, the muscle repairing and the skin trying to knit itself together, but still blood came through and still her breaths grew shorter and shallower. Lo'jar thought that besides his mother, he hadn't cared for the welfare of another being this much. He hated humans. He hadn't known this one for more than a few months, but he looked at her thick, black eyelashes and smooth, creamy skin and knew that there was something about this creature that needed to be kept. She had importance, and someday, he would be rewarded for his heroism.

The troll gagged as Morla's body seemed to reach out to him and draw in what he offered. The muscle was fixed and the blood flow stopped; her eyes flew open and Clef had to draw his hands away at the burning heat coming through her. Lo'jar had to hold her, instead, when she fell against him and passed out.

Carefully they carried her back to the camp and laid her down in the tent, leaving her there. Lo'jar pulled out the arrow and made sure it wasn't poisoned before bandaging himself, too weak to even attempt healing. He rummaged through his bag for a potion and found none, so he went to his own tent and sat there for a time, making sure the bleeding stopped before he tried to sleep. Clef sat and waited, and when neither of his friends awoke, he went out and caught fish for dinner. He put them over the spit, and started the fire, and listened to them crackle and simmer as the afternoon wore on into night.

--

Morla signed nothing when she came to the next morning. Lo'jar had gone to the other island and luckily the orc's body hadn't drifted away into the ocean, so he took off the head and put it in a bag, tying the top shut tightly. In silence they swam back to shore, with Clef carrying Morla on his shoulders. They wrapped her in the cloak and she didn't complain.

Though Lo'jar had healed her, the wound seemed to still bother the human. She often clutched it with her hand and her breath would hitch, but her companions said nothing, for there was nothing they could do.

The travel to the Crossroads was short but the heat seemed to wear on all of them, and by the time they arrived, all three were pale in the face. Lo'jar turned in the bounty, with the head in the bag, to the man who had posted the warrant. They only got half of the money.

"We did as the poster asked," Lo'jar said, "dead or alive, preferably dead!"

"Did you read the fine print?" the stout, pug-nosed orc asked. Looking weary, Lo'jar shook his head. "The family wanted the statuette she had stolen from the two goblins, as well. You didn't bring that, and so you only get half of the reward."

The troll was too tired and irritated to argue, and he didn't want to be put in jail himself, so he took the money and left.

They stayed for a night at the inn and tried to nurse themselves back to health; only Lo'jar and Clef succeeded. The troll hoped that whatever bargaining chip Clef had with him would work on the tauren chief, so the girl could get some proper medical attention.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Traitor**

**Chapter Five**

It was Lo'jar that had to take Morla on the wyvern with him, because Clef was heavy enough as it was for the beast without any extra weight. He put one hand around her tiny middle and clasped the wyvern's mane with the other. Here, she had an opportunity to look at him.

Many looked at the half-troll and knew immediately that he was strange, that he was different. He was smaller in stature than any normal troll and had a very distinct color about him; his features were much softer, with a smaller nose, whiter, thinner tusks, and a more rounded jaw. But while Lo'jar was strange, there was also something charming about him and so others who saw or interacted with him ignored his strangeness. It was simply accepted.

What Morla hadn't known was that the half-troll had proficiency in Common. He had spoken some to her on the walk to the Crossroads, and she was surprised to both recognize and understand it. A little she wondered about his background—how had a half night elf, half troll begun? Looking at his large, yet careful hand, she realized they had more in common than she had originally thought. They both bridged the gap between the two warring factions; while he contained both parts in a more physical sense, Morla contained it in being a traitor. Her affection for the troll was different than Clef's in that he was more of a friend, unlike Clef—her brother—and was closer to a different part of her heart. Always open to emotion, she accepted this and smiled at having someone else she knew in this strange and very threatening world.

The girl was overcome with a sudden homesickness as they flew over the great open meadows of Mulgore. This place, she knew, was truly home. She had run in this grass and lived in these villages. When Thunder Bluff appeared on the horizon, though she had never visited it before, she felt at once that it was a place she would always return to.

Lo'jar unconsciously gripped the girl tighter when the wyvern tipped and flew steeply upward. They angled up over the cliff and below them spread the four islands of Thunder Bluff. Morla stared at the great wood totems that rose up into the air around them as they descended toward the tower at the center of the tauren city. The totems were painted and carved into the shapes and faces of animals, all representing the lore of the peaceful people that created them. The wyvern settled into the tower and Lo'jar lifted his charge off onto the platform.

Morla kept her cloak on as they escorted her down the tower toward the highest bluff of the city. No one looked twice at Clef but a few gave the half-troll odd looks, for not many foreigners bothered to come to Mulgore. Others peered at the small creature tucked beneath the cloak—for she was dwarfed immensely by both of her companions—looking to see what she might be. Morla pulled the hood down so it shadowed her face completely.

There was a unique smell about Thunder Bluff, and Mulgore, that Morla admired. It was a fresh smell, not dead and dirty like the Barrens or Durotar. This land isolated by mountains was a haven. The sky was an untouched blue, dotted by clouds that wisped and swirled with the wind. Here, the sun was brighter, but far less blinding and penetrating; it was a calm, loving sun. She felt that in this place, she had a connection with the world all around her, and it accepted her easily and without question.

As they approached, Morla thought the chief's hut was enormous. It was a longhouse, adorned with weapons and medals of honor. Cairne stood at the far end, conversing with one of the warrior trainers. He gesticulated wildly, obviously irritated; Clef, Lo'jar and Morla waited patiently. Clef held the girl's hand in his, and the troll lightly touched her shoulder, in case anything should happen to her, they would rush to defend her.

The tauren shuffled nervously, always bothered by situations. He was grateful that they would have someone to speak for them. When Cairne dismissed the trainer and approached them, enormous and powerful, Clef felt a surge of instability. Morla squeezed his hand tighter and she signed, "Calm," with her fingers, and this simple gesture dispelled some of the unease that bound and harassed him.

Cairne looked at Clef, hardly acknowledging the other two. "You have requested audience with me?"

Slowly the black tauren nodded, with a twitch of nervousness, and looked over at Lo'jar, who cleared his throat. Cairne's attention shifted to the half-troll. He patted his chest and began. Morla made sure that Clef held the little bag in his hand, ready to hand over.

"I am Lo'jar," the troll began, introducing himself and bowing slightly, as was polite custom. "These are my companions Clef, and Morla." He didn't gesture to them, but Clef nodded his head and kept his eyes on the floor. Cairne only nodded and watched them expectantly, and with a bit of a bored expression.

"There was an incident in Bloodhoof Village which you might have heard of, some years ago," Lo'jar began. "It involved a human who was held captive there." Cairne raised his eyebrows.

"How do you come by this knowledge?" he asked, voice deep like a great drum. There was a twang of suspicion in his tone.

Lo'jar gestured to Clef. "This fellow here, who I speak for because he has difficulty speaking for himself. He lived in Bloodhoof Village at the time of the event." Slowly, Cairne nodded.

"I have heard some of this tragedy."

Lo'jar blinked. "Tragedy?"

"Warriors fell there. Many believe the dwarves brought demons with them when they attacked." While the half-troll was stricken silent, Cairne stared at him with deep, black eyes, and asked in a bored, hollow voice, "If that's all, I would like to return to my duties."

Lo'jar's mouth bobbed open and closed like a fish's, and at the chief's words he hastily raised a hand. He wasn't quite sure what to make of this—either something was wrong in Clef's head, or there had been quite a cover-up. He hadn't expected that of the noble tauren people. "This is, actually, not what occurred in Bloodhoof at that time."

Cairne's eyebrows lowered, but he said nothing. Keeping his eyes on the troll he sat down in an enormous chair, decorated with pelts and the horns of some wild beast. Lo'jar cleared his throat once more. "Please, do not be alarmed." He looked around and the two guards standing nearby had their backs to the goings-on.

The chief went from a look of irritation to one of surprise, and then of anger when Lo'jar removed the cloak from Morla's head. She stared up at Cairne, quite silent, and the troll noticed in passing that her eyebrows were drawn up and her eyes shone with fear. His hand tightened on her shoulder.

"What are you—"

"Please," Lo'jar interrupted him calmly. "This is the human that was previously a captive of Bloodhoof village. Rather, she was a daughter of the village. This brave tauren," he indicated to Clef, who bowed slightly, "took her with him when she was banished."

Eyes still intently on the girl, body tense and ready, Cairne flared his great nostrils. The troll could see a thousand thoughts in the chief's mind, all flooding to the top so he had trouble sifting through them. Lo'jar would have to take advantage of his surprise. "What happened, in fact, is quite different than you have been told." He looked then at Clef, and indicated with his hand toward the chief. The movement distracted Cairne from the frightened human. Clef hastily lifted the little bag and offered it to the chief, who took it after a moment's contemplation.

"What is this?"

Clef shook his head. "D-d-don't know. M-m-medicine wo-woman g-gave it to m-me." He swallowed and lowered his head. Morla rubbed his hand and the tauren looked with one eye up at the chief.

Cairne opened the bag, still keeping Morla in his sight, and pulled out a little roll of paper and a small, black stone. It was smooth, but not shiny, and he weighed it in his hand before unrolling the note. He read silently, much to Lo'jar's chagrin, and as the seconds passed his eyebrows drew closer together and his shoulders tightened. None of the audience could possibly discern what was written there.

When he finished, he carefully tucked the stone away into his pocket, as if it hadn't been there at all, and he looked down at the human girl. His expression had changed somewhat and he regarded her now not with suspicion, but calm indifference. "I must, on principle, commend and honor you for what you did in Bloodhoof," he told her, now focused solely on her round, frightened face. He regarded her now—after reading the letter—as worthy of being spoken to, and not as a mere creature. "I have been given a request that I am not sure yet how to receive. Though you are welcome in Thunder Bluff—as we do not have the same law codes as those of Bloodhoof—I cannot ensure that I will employ you as it has been suggested." All three of the visitors raised their eyebrows in surprise, and they looked at one another with shrugs and curiosity. The chief rolled up the note once more and waved his hand at them. "I will let you know what I decide. Until then, make yourselves at home. I suppose both of you are her guardians?" Clef nodded his head, but Lo'jar looked uncomfortable and the chief watched them. "I see. Well, feel free to stay here as long as you'd like. Thank you for delivering this important commodity to me."

With that, the guards that had been waiting at the door parted, and Lo'jar knew they were being bidden away. Morla moved to replace her hood and Cairne interrupted her. "No need to hide yourself here. You are under my protection." Looking thoughtful, he stood and went around his immense chair. He checked through drawers for a moment and then came back, holding a badge, which he pinned to the collar of the girl's shirt. "You are under my official protection. Should any trouble arise, any bluffwatcher will defend you.

"You are dismissed." He sat back down on his chair and the guards walked the trio out of the building, where they left them on the front step.

--

They had been given one room in the inn for the three of them, and Lo'jar had used a tiny portion of the money from the bounty to get a second room for himself. There they collected, Lo'jar sitting on a chair, Clef on the floor and Morla on the bed.

"Employ me?" the girl asked with her fingers. Lo'jar shook his head.

"I honestly don't know what it means," he told her, shrugging his shoulders. "He didn't even test you, or anything."

Morla nodded her head and let out a voiceless sigh, lying down on the bed and propping up her head on her elbows.

"M-maybe she can s-s-stay here?" Clef asked at length. "M-maybe that is what he m-means."

Lo'jar shook his head. "There's no way to know. You'll just have to wait. Besides, if he decides he doesn't want you here, what will you do then?" he asked Morla. She stared at him, her eyes widening with surprise. It was obviously a possibility she hadn't considered, nor did it seem to be a concern.

The girl sat up to sign. "I don't know." She looked down at her lap and furrowed her brows. "I've never thought about it."

"I'll be with y-you, no m-m-matter what," Clef announced. The girl smiled at him and slowly nodded her head.

"I'm not human or tauren," she signed, hands shaking a little. "I don't really belong anywhere." She thought for a moment more. "Can I live as a hermit in the Thousand Needles for my whole life?"

Lo'jar looked at her quite seriously and shook his head. "It's almost impossible," he said, knowledgeable in the matter. "You can't be left alone forever."

Morla raised an eyebrow at him. "My parents lived in the Arathi Highlands," he told her. "For years, my whole childhood. My father sent me to Mulgore, where I lived with my uncle for a year. I learned there how to be a shaman. After that, I lived with my father's family in Sen'jin. When I went home to see if my father could make me some armor, I found the house had been pillaged while my mother was away and my father, a cripple, was dead." There was no emotion on his face as he said these last words, though Morla's features contorted in pain. "My mother lives in Booty Bay now. I took my father's armor and my first real battle was killing the men who killed my father. I have no allegiance to the alliance, after that. I am full Horde."

The companions were silent then, and slowly Morla rose from the bed. She walked over to where Lo'jar sat in the chair and stood for a moment, their eyes locked, before she touched his head ever so lightly. She smoothed down some of his wild purple hair and tucked a lock of it behind one of his great big ears. When the half-troll spoke again, his voice began to crack. "I took revenge for years. I became a terror of the Eastern Kingdoms. They don't know me here." His features tightened. "You can't escape the world, girl. You can't keep it away forever. This is your opportunity." He looked at her. "I have no place. I didn't want to be killed in my sleep like my father, but now, I have no home—nowhere to go back to. Find a world that will accept you and stay there."

Morla only nodded her head and continued to stroke the troll's hair, lightly brushing his ears as she did so. The movement seemed to comfort him and his shoulders relaxed into a slouch, a natural position.

"Wait with us," she signed to him. "Wait until the chief makes his decision. If we go, we'll go together." The human smiled and Lo'jar was unable to stop himself from smiling back. He nodded his head.

"My real name," he said to her then, "is not Lo'jar. That is my troll name, given to me by my father. The name my mother gave me," he paused, "is Loren."

Morla only looked at him, her brown eyes unblinking, and leaned her head against his.

--

They split up the money between them, Clef and Morla taking half, and Lo'jar keeping the other half.

The girl was all right for the first day they stayed there, but she had difficulty waking up the morning of the second day. She was weak but said nothing; at lunchtime—she had stayed in the room while Lo'jar and Clef went shopping for weapons or armor—they returned and found her unconscious, breathing heavily on the bed and covered in cold sweat. Her bones quaked when they touched her and Clef pulled down her shirt to expose the wound on her collar. It had become in a short time a very dark color, with dark blood oozing slowly from the pores in the hive-like texture of it.

Clef panicked.

The tauren hollered and stomped one foot, his eyes glazed. He took the girl hastily up in his arms and while Lo'jar shouted objections to him, he stumbled down the stairs of the inn and out the front door. He rocked her back and forth, head jerking oddly, and only slowed his movements when the half-troll touched his arm and said, "We'll take care of her, don't worry."

Clef was volatile. His problems were much deeper than Lo'jar knew, he began to realize. He carefully stepped around the tauren and pointed off toward the main area of the city. "Come, let's walk to Elder Rise. The shamans will care for her." The half-troll handled the badge on her chest and Clef seemed to accept this, his breath becoming more regular. Lo'jar led the way, and halfway there, they began to jog.

Tauren all around stared at them, wondering what they would be in such a hurry for—and then they saw the human girl dangling in Clef's immense arms, and their eyes grew wide, and they whispered to one another. No one came up to them, however, and for this, Lo'jar was grateful. He didn't want to see anyone getting hurt at the immense warrior's hand.

They crossed the bridge and the troll was afraid for a few brief moments that the fragile wood would give beneath the big ox's weight, but the ropes held and they made it across safely. Once inside the tent, the shamans stayed where they were and watched with fascination, never moving toward them, as the two went to the head shaman at the far end.

Lo'jar was breathing hard, but Clef seemed unmoved. He kneeled down in front of the shaman, who was silent, and held the girl out. Her breath was short and gasping, and sweat dribbled off her forehead in tiny cool droplets. "H-h-heal h-her," he said. The shaman leaned down, expressionless, and examined the badge on her. He pulled down her shirt and looked at the wound, waving his hand over it. The great brown beast looked at Lo'jar.

"This wound is not normal," he said, "though I'm sure you've gathered this." He paused. "You will have to leave her with me for a time. I will have to create a treatment for this wound. It is a slow-acting poison, that eats at the skin and creates lesions on the body."

The troll stared, mouth slightly open. The shaman gave both of them hard looks and asked, "Where did you encounter such a thing?"

"A hunter," Lo'jar immediately replied.

The tauren bobbed his head and then took the girl from Clef, who looked about to object until Lo'jar touched his shoulder. With some hesitation he stood up and stepped back from the shaman, who held the girl before placing her on a wooden dresser behind him. "Wait."

Clef and Lo'jar nodded, and sat. Clef watched with a kind of morbid fascination, flinching every time the girl lurched. At first the shaman touched the wound with his bare hand and she gurgled in her throat. He then fixed a bottle of some antidote and applied it with a piece of wool. Morla seemed to calm at first, her breath slowing somewhat, when suddenly the wound began to visibly bubble and she arched her back, opening her mouth to cry, and predictably, no sound came out. As her skin moved and hissed blood came forth and spilled out, staining most of her white shirt a dark red. The amount of it terrified both of the companions watching; Clef was tense enough to crush metal in his fists. He seemed ready to rescue the girl, but Lo'jar told him, "Don't worry, he knows what he's doing."

The blood stopped after a time and the shaman generated a small aura around his hand, which he applied to her. Morla's convulsing ceased and she relaxed, resistant but compliant, and slowly laid back down on the hard, unyielding wood. The shaman turned away then and busied himself for some minutes concocting something with leaves and potions.

"Where were you when she obtained this poison?" he asked, back to them.

"Echo Islands," Lo'jar replied.

"I see." He poured something and it fizzled. "There is one ingredient to this poison that I know, and it is a plant that only grows in Tirisfal, of the Eastern Kingdoms. This is an herb harvested by the undead." He turned for a moment and looked hard at Lo'jar. "Are you sure she has not come into contact with these creatures?" The troll nodded, and the shaman sighed, turning back to his work.

There was another silence. The tauren finished with his salve and went to Morla's prone body. She breathed normally now, but she hadn't risen. He applied the salve to most of her chest and collar, pausing for a moment to feel her forehead with one hand, and then stood patiently. What the pair could see of the wound, the blood lingering on the surface disappeared and the skin began to grow back over the charred-looking parts. A few drops of blood were squeezed out, and the shaman wiped them away with a small cloth. He then waved the salve-covered hand in front of Morla's nose, and she sat up quite suddenly, like she had been jolted back to life with electricity.

--

"There is something going on that is more than neither I nor Apothecary Zamah quite understand." Cairne relaxed his head on his palm. The three once again held an audience with him, though Morla was much paler this time, and her wrist was bound with a bandage to cover the hell mark there. The shaman had returned for her after her companions took her back to the inn. There, he had looked over her for indications of the nether and covered them. He gave no explanation and was curt with Clef and Lo'jar when they objected to him.

"We know that the undead work often to create new diseases to cripple the humans; however, the use of such hazards against fellows is a definite threat—and one that must be addressed." Cairne sat up straight, deciding it was not wise to be a slouch in front of the weak little human, and continued. "We believe that this creature's connection with the underworlds made her both more and less vulnerable than a normal person might have been. Her body rejected the sickness but held onto the disease. While the disease, we believe, was engineered to be a wandering plague, the fel aspect of her kept her from being completely overcome by the disease early on."

Lo'jar furrowed his brow. "Pardon me," said the half-troll, interrupting, and drawing the irritated chief's attention directly to him. "But Clef and I were both shot by the same arrows, and we were not affected."

Cairne nodded his head. "We believe that it has been designed to target humans," he replied. "But that doesn't mean it can't have negative effects if used against some of our own. Thus why this is becoming an issue." He shook his head. "But it is not something we are ready to discuss at length. Rather, I would like to address the purpose of this meeting."

Morla swallowed and had to lean on Clef's arm for support. She was weak in the knees and her skin had taken on a more sickly pallor; the shaman said she would recover, but recovery was certainly taking its time.

"Because of what I have been told," the chief said, his voice turning deeper, "I believe I can somewhat grasp the enormity of what it is I am dealing with." He cleared his throat. "It is not the custom of Thunder Bluff to turn away those in need, or those it needs, and you are both. Apothecary Zamah has offered you, child, the opportunity to study under her, because your arcane knowledge is appreciated by her kind, and not ours. When she deems that you are ready, you will return to me and then we will decide what to do with you." Though the words were dismissive, Cairne kept his eyes on the girl and she felt a sort of unease in them. As she looked, time slowed, and she immediately conceived his expression: he feared giving the creature, given to him—as a gift, it seemed—to the same creatures that attempted her destruction. It was not a fear for her as an individual, but as an asset to the tauren people.

Morla remembered, then, a small memory. An elderly woman wanted her to stay—to defend the village—but the others couldn't bear it. Like the disease, Morla was always the hybrid, the person divided into two parts, wanted in two places at once: here and away. No one could live with her; these villages couldn't live without her. There was a deep threat in having the power to defend one's self, Morla thought. This chief had seen that he had the ability to ward off the unforeseen attack, and this power to defend made him more paranoid than he had been before. The idea of safety was more dangerous than any other.

Cairne drew his eyes away and the troll and tauren bowed. Taking Morla by the arms, one with one, they took her back to the inn, where there was a note waiting for them.

"I don't like this at all," Lo'jar said pensively, holding the note. It was the location of the apothecary, with a meaningless, introductory message. Morla lay on her bed in her and Clef's room, spread eagle. She let out a heavy breath. "Handing you over to the undead?"

"The a-a-apoth... a-apothecary is d-d-different," Clef told the half-troll.

Lo'jar rolled his eyes and disregarded his friend's comment completely, sitting down on the bed beside Morla. "Are you going along with this?"

With one hand, she signed back, "What choice do I have?"

"Indeed."

After a few moments, Clef rose and left, without a word. Morla let out a voiceless sigh and leaned her head back so she looked up at the headboard. "Are you going to go once they employ me?" She signed, emphasizing the word "employ." The half-troll looked down at her and she kept her eyes away.

He couldn't understand why he had helped these two misfits to begin with. Not that he had much of a life to live, but he had gone far out of his way to be of aid to them, and to be a companion to them; it was a kindness he was unused to and rather feared. There was something about them that compelled him and he believed, compelled others, too. He looked at the human girl and couldn't think that she represented the things he hated so much—the Alliance, the humans. Instead, she was, like him, a bridge to the gap, more Horde than human, but still carrying a part of her heritage with her. She could never be fully Horde, just like Lo'jar.

He nodded his head. "I'll be returning to the Thousand Needles, where I was before you two so rudely interrupted me." He stuck out his tongue but she didn't see him.

There was a moment of silence before Morla sat up. She leaned forward, resting on her arms, and looked directly at the troll with a look that was almost too intense to hold. "Stay here," she said, with her mouth and lips, with a breath of air, and no sound. Lo'jar found he was unable to look away as she came closer. "What if we need you?" He opened his mouth to reply, but he found he couldn't. It felt as if she had silenced him. "What happens then?" Lo'jar only shook his head. He didn't process what she said, but was drawn deeply into her great, brown eyes, which seemed now to swirl with red and yellow. They were deep, like earthy pools, like quicksand; he found himself short of breath. When she had come so close that their noses touched, he realized quite suddenly that as much as he wanted to stay and watch over her—not them, just her—she was too much. He would be pulled in to her and then he would never escape. This thought frightened him, and so quite suddenly, he jumped backwards. The swift movement caused her to be discombobulated and Lo'jar quickly got to his feet.

"Clef will be able to take care of everything," he said hastily, and though his voice was more high-pitched than usual from his stress, he ignored it. "You know him, he'll do anything for you. He'll protect you." The girl wasn't looking at him anymore and for a moment, the half-troll was grateful. Then she turned her eyes and they were normal again. She smiled,

"Of course," she signed, "we'll be just fine. Thank you for your help." At that moment, the door opened once more, and Clef came in carrying a great roast beast and a flask of water. Talk between them ceased here and they succumbed to hunger.

--

True to his word, Lo'jar left as soon as the two were situated. Clef sought training from the warrior masters of Thunder Bluff. Lo'jar went with Morla when she met Zamah, who seemed wary of the girl at first, but quickly found her silence endearing. He looked over the projects there: the shaman seemed to have taken a sampling of Morla's infected skin and they kept it here in a jar, taking only tiny bits to test in their various steaming, multi-colored vials. The apothecary was the first to see Morla's powers and test them, as the undead preferred, rather than shunned, the hell creatures.

Morla brought in the imp on her second day, after initially meeting the apothecary, and Zamah was fascinated with it. "He seems to genuinely prefer you," she said, examining him. The imp gave her a nasty look. "Usually, imps are the hardest to bring forward, because they so hate their position, and are intelligent enough to do so." When she attempted to touch the imp, he snapped his teeth at her and she stepped back. "Well."

Morla's job was to be multi-faceted, it seemed: the apothecary wanted to study her, of course, but this was short-term. She also was instructed by Cairne to train the girl and bring in others to encourage and cultivate her skills. The last position of the girl was to run errands for Zamah should she ask it. Lo'jar guessed these would be errands involving humans, or the Alliance, where Morla could easily go and not be attacked or even be looked at suspiciously. She was a perfect tool for the undead, the half-troll knew. But the woman seemed to have her head on straight and if anything should happen, he knew that Clef would hopefully handle it. Though the ox wasn't a genius, he had muscle.

The third day, Lo'jar bid goodbye to the little human, who was slowly becoming not as little. She had changed clothes to something made for her by the local tailor, who had to import special cloths and make the clothes specifically to the human's unique size. She looked well-kempt now and often put her blonde hair up in sloppy buns to keep it away from her face.

That day was the first time the half-troll had hugged Morla, and he mostly thought it would be the last. He picked her up and her arms tightly held his neck. Her feet dangled nearly two feet off the ground. Once he put her down, she signed to him, "If you ever need anything, just write to me. I will always get your words." What she meant by this, Lo'jar didn't know, but he didn't think about it again until he was on the wyvern leaving Thunder Bluff.

His goodbye with Clef had been much easier; they nodded at one another, said, "Goodbye," and shook hands. The tauren thanked him in his broken, nervous Orcish for aiding them, and for "taking an arrow or two" for them, as well. "Take care of yourself," Clef told him.

As he flew away from the great cliffs and soared over the green, peaceful meadows of Mulgore, Lo'jar wondered what would become of the girl. He had a strange feeling that this was not the last time he would see her, and as such, he was not too sad to see her go. However, his chest ached, and he had a sour feeling in his gut that he couldn't quite identify.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Traitor**

**Chapter Six**

Chief Cairne Bloodhoof sat in his chair at night and leaned forward, tired, with his ears sagging and his braids feeling heavier than ever. His eyelids weighed down but he pulled out the small stone and looked over it. He wondered if it really had the power that his medicine woman told him it had; he trusted her and her powers of seeing the future. When he held it too close to his eyes he could see odd, misshapen reflections in it—reflections of things in other places, in other worlds. He had Zamah look every day to make sure the girl had her hellmark covered. He couldn't lose her and risk his kingdom.

He turned it over in his fingers and rubbed the smooth surface, both admiring it and fearing it. There were tiny, almost invisible streaks of gold in it, like marbling. If he held the stone too long it grew hot and sometimes it burned him. Then he would put it back in his deep pocket, where he kept it always.

Cairne monitored the apothecary with his implant, who reported every other day. The findings were usual and hardly interesting in the sense of new discoveries, though the chief found descriptions of the human to be intriguing and bewildering. There was something about the way she affected those around her that surprised him. He always thought that those who associated themselves with the denizens of hell would repel other living beings. Morla Stronghorn was not the case.

The tauren chief sighed and put the rock away, leaning back in his chair and staring out the window into the night. It was about time he slept.

--

Morla woke up and put on her clothes, and when she was finished, she brought up breakfast. At that point in the morning she generally woke up Clef, who slept quite through everything, but this morning he had left early on a hunting trip, and wouldn't return until sometime the next day. Today, she ate by herself, and then left without taking the tray back to the kitchen downstairs.

Thunder Bluff had mostly gotten used to the little human that lived among them, though often foreigners and newcomers would stare and glare at her, but they never threatened or attacked her. Strangers figured, if she was accepted among the tauren, they probably wouldn't hesitate to defend her.

In fact, her life there was quite ambiguous and often ignored. A few times shops refused to serve her; other times, she was treated with unseemly fairness. She disregarded all of it for the most part and tried to focus on her work, for it was her belief that if she showed proficiency in what she had been told to do, she was more likely to be accepted. So Morla put her heart into working with the apothecary, and Zamah very much appreciated it.

When the human went into the cavern beneath Elder Bluff, she heard the familiar hissing sound of the Gutterspeak. She had begun to pick up some of it, but many of those working with Zamah either ignored Morla or spoke Orcish around her. They were polite but occasionally, she heard words she had come to learn were somewhat derisive and at those times, she looked away and pretended to be keeping herself busy.

She went up immediately to the undead woman, who had ushered her over without looking up. Morla looked over the table, which was covered in various multicolored vials and contraptions for monitoring them. "We've made a breakthrough today," Zamah said, adjusting some of her meters, and then looked at the girl. "But I need to ask you some questions." The apothecary had learned some of Morla's hand signals, but couldn't understand full sentences. In these times, Morla wrote down her answers in Taurahe, which she had learned as a child, and Zamah could mostly understand this.

"I need you to fully describe the situation in which you believe you were poisoned." Morla raised her eyebrows. She had thought that they had fully covered this and moved on. Returning to it after days of teaching the girl herbalism and alchemy seemed strange, but she did as she was told.

Morla recounted exactly how they had come to the island, and been ambushed. She was poisoned by the spider and healed by the shaman. They fought with the hunter after the spider was killed, and the hunter had shot her through the collar.

She used the most description that she could accurately remember, and tried her hardest not to skew any of her memories. Zamah read over them then and rewrote some in Orcish on a separate piece of paper, which she wandered off with for a majority of the day. Morla busied herself with Zamah's apprentices and aides, learning new skills, and being sent out once or twice to fetch a few easy to find herbs that often lived outside the bluff.

That evening, just before Morla was set to leave, the apothecary returned and ordered her to sit. There they began.

"I am coming to believe that it was not, in fact, the arrow that brought on your ailment, but this bite of the spider's." She gestured toward some of the vials she still had on the desk, which had been untouched that day. Then she drew out a paper with various names and numbers; Morla recognized some, and saw they made a distinct pattern. "Remember when I pricked you the other day, and scraped the wound?" Morla nodded. "I got the same results from that bit of skin as I did from the infected sample given to us. From this, I have determined that somehow, the spider's venom has remained in you and only comes to the surface when you have been wounded. It infects these wounds. While your previous doctor determined accurately the nature of the poison, as it is usually used, this poison was one contracted naturally and thus is not a plague." She narrowed her eyes. "I can deduce this because of your description of the spider, which is much like one of those that resides in Tirisfal Glades, where the same herb can be found that is used in the plague previously described. I believe this spider ingested the herb—or perhaps, since the undead have begun to farm it and mass produce it, all spiders have—and somehow assimilated it into its venom." Zamah then took a deep breath and put down both papers, and crossed her arms.

Morla furrowed her brow and looked down pensively. Zamah cleared her throat. "Thus, this raises some interesting questions. If this hunter was as advanced as you describe her, I wonder then why she would select a relatively weak animal as her companion. My answer to this is speculative and naturally, only a theory: I believe this orc knew of the powers of the Tirisfal spider and assimilated it into her own arsenal. This causes me to wonder how many others know of the farming of the Dreadfall herb and exactly how much of it is being created. Also, I wonder: if it gets out of the hands of those who know how to use it, is there any way to stop it from being used against ourselves or others of our own alliance?"

It was a question Morla didn't know how to answer, nor did she want to attempt to. Zamah sat down then and didn't say anything else, shooing the girl away. "Go sleep, or whatever it is you do. Tomorrow is going to be a bigger and better day." She looked at the human. "Soon, you'll have to do something with all this reputation you've built up for yourself."

The apothecary dismissed her, and walking back to the inn, Morla wondered what she meant.

--

Clef came back late that night and gave Morla a great lion pelt as a gift. It was trimmed and the top of the head, which was only the upper jaw, had the eyes replaced with jewels. She pressed the soft fur against her, which had been brushed and oiled, and she smiled at her friend.

"It's wonderful," she signed, and the tauren nodded his head.

They sat together for some time that night, and Morla told him a little of what Zamah had told her.

"P-perhaps you'll have t-to use your powers," he said. "Do you remember?"

Morla nodded her head. "Don't worry t-too much." Clef wrapped her up in the great pelt and laid her flat on her bed. "If you know what to do, that's a-all you c-can do."

--

Morla's first test was quite different than she expected. Zamah presented her with some herbs and asked her to conjure something from them. Whatever it was, she said, it didn't matter—but the quality and content of it would be the measure. She didn't say what she wanted, and so Morla didn't ask. She looked over the herbs and tried to remember what the apothecary had taught her.

She could make any number of potions, most of them various kinds of poisons or slowing mechanisms. However, she remembered one kind of spirit potion that could be made with these ingredients, minus one, and she figured it was better—and more reliable—to improve yourself than to try to damage your enemy. Thus, this was the potion she brewed. She made sure to apply just the right amounts and even added a bit of her own spice, to make it more palatable. When she finished—an hour later—she went up to Zamah and held out the little round bottle.

"I see," she said. "You could have made something crippling," she said. Morla nodded. Zamah looked it over, and then drank a little. Morla held her breath.

"Well, that's peculiar," she said, and looked over. The girl saw a little bit of extra light in the undead woman's eye. "Well, a booster potion. Not with extreme visible effects, but still enhancing. I approve."

She cleaned up the whole area and sat Morla down in a chair. The apothecary stood, still holding the bottle, and leaned forward a little to look the human in the eye. "I want you to know that I am turning you into a tool. This is what Cairne wants, and this is what will keep you here until he decides otherwise. You are going to become a spy, a magician, and a fighter. You may die." She twirled the bottle and Morla imagined it might fall and shatter. Strangely, the thought didn't scare her. "You may have your warrior with you, but know that you're going to have to learn somehow to communicate. I've been doing research, but I still have nothing cement as of yet. Until I do, you will be training with Matheas Brownwater to hone your skills as a warlock." Zamah took a breath. "You will still be here, then. But as soon as you are ready, I will expect you to know and use all the things I have taught you."

Later that afternoon, the apothecary was working with Morla when a male voice came from the lower part of the pools. "The lovely Zamah," he said, coming up the stairs and onto the topmost terrace, where Morla and the head apothecary worked. "It's been a while."

"Ah," she said, raising one hand and patting the rotting man on the shoulder. She gestured to Morla, who was stricken, holding a vial in one hand and a full red bottle in the other. Her eyes bulged a little. "This is Matheas. Matheas, this is Morla, the prodigy." Matheas kept his eyes on the girl and bowed lightly.

"I've heard much about you," he told her, smiling broadly—without any lips, the girl noticed. There was something eerily familiar about the character, with his long, scraggly hair that was held loosely behind his head. His features were softer than Morla expected, as if the places where flesh was missing blended into the rest of him easily. The glowing eyes beamed with a soft light. Strange, she thought. He looked friendly. It was a bizarre experience.

She nodded her head and with hesitation she offered her hand. He shook it, looking at her curiously, and didn't speak again until Zamah leaned over and spoke to him, "She's a mute." Matheas's mouth opened a little with surprise and he looked back at Morla with an apologetic expression. She smiled. He returned the gesture.

"You will be working with Matheas on improving your skills and training new ones," Zamah told Morla. "You two will begin immediately. Acquaint yourselves quickly and move on."

--

Morla pitied the undead man, who couldn't quite grasp many of Morla's gestures. Instead, they took to a method that would never have worked for anyone except the obliging human girl: Matheas told her what to do, and she did it. Never did she have to ask questions; never did she attempt to argue, and never did she have trouble following through with the other warlock's commands. He was very skilled; an under-recognized member of the Horde, he told her. He didn't mind it, though, for then he had more time for himself and improving than training weaklings or running errands for his higher-ups. They mostly left him alone in the Undercity, he said. "But those ruins quickly bore one, especially when you live forever. It was a great privilege to come here."

The first day they met, Matheas met Alrash, and the imp wasn't sure how to regard him. The creature sometimes relayed messages to Matheas if he asked a question. As imps usually are, Alrash was mostly rude to the warlock trainer, but listened when he was taught new skills. However, when Matheas asked, "How do you summon more than one demon?"—hoping to bait Morla into revealing whether or not she could do so, as he had been told—Alrash snappily told him, "She doesn't know." Matheas, having dealt with his kind before, only nodded his head and moved on. She never called them during practice or when asked, and so he assumed Cairne's claim was unfounded and far-fetched. He dismissed it.

Matheas was much kinder to Morla than she had expected. Zamah was rough-edged with her and often exercised her power of authority; Matheas, however, always put forth an effort to be accommodating—though it was unnecessary—and was almost fatherly to the girl. While she at first found being near him difficult, for the bugs living in his hair and the amount of his innards that she could see often put her off, she grew used to him rather quickly and after two weeks, she hardly noticed that she could see his jaw bone when he spoke or that the leather strap tied around his neck pressed grotesquely skin.

Morla learned to improve her shadow bolt and various fire attacks; she learned to port small distances, to create health stones, and to summon an Eye of Kilrogg. Though many of her specialty talents were weak, her basic attacks were incredibly powerful and Matheas had many scars from when he had initially underestimated her ability. In time, he taught her to hold onto the heat that made her strong and nurse it higher and higher, like a volcano, until she could do most anything he asked of her. Especially destructive were her curses.

It was difficult to teach her this art, but once she grasped the concept, Morla took off with it. She couldn't speak, and thus it was impossible to tell when she was beginning a curse. Her eyes would shift subtly and one eyebrow lowered; though he learned to recognize the signs, no casual enemy would have an idea of what was going on behind those innocent-looking brown eyes. They were outside practicing on a pride of lions, when Morla had used her Curse of Agony: the beast had convulsed, crying a cry like one that could be heard in the depths of hell. Its skin rippled and blood vessels in its eyes popped, until blood streamed from its orifices and it fell to the ground, a twitching, lifeless organism. The human turned to her mentor and he watched her, eyes unfocused, one hand trembling.

But Matheas knew he was training a devil. The kindness he summoned in himself kept her at bay, and he nursed his tender side—which surprised him, a warlock of considerable power. It was a talent not come by with a nurturing personality, and he found his job difficult not in his pupil, for she caught on to things faster than himself or any other warlock he had known of; instead, he was tortured by having to keep himself away. He couldn't give in to his desire to create a monster. He had to keep her away from the darkness and keep her sane. She had an important job to do, though he wasn't permitted to know exactly what that was.

The day of the Curse of Agony, Matheas Brownwater knew the girl was ready for whatever Zamah had for her to do. At that point, she had become more physically powerful than even himself, and all he had left to teach her was control. How much of that he could do, Matheas didn't know.

--

It was very late on a summer night when there came a knock on the door. Clef and Morla sat on the bed, playing a game with little marked wooden pieces, fighting over who had won. Morla turned sixteen the previous week, and they had had a small celebration with a fruit cake. They ate it alone together and stayed up late taking the leaves off of some potent magical flowers that Clef had picked on his last hunting trip.

This night, when the knock came at nearly midnight, Morla jumped and nearly fell off the bed; Clef got up and stomped over to the door, which he opened mightily and flashed his fangs at whoever might be there.

Matheas gasped. "Oh, I must have the wrong room," he said, coughing a phlegmy cough. "I apologize. It must be the next one."

Morla quickly peeked around the great tauren, who had one hand on each side of the doorway, effectively blocking it. He saw her then and gasped again. The girl smiled, and signed to Clef that it was all right. "This is my teacher," she told him. Still looking suspicious, Clef moved to the side and allowed Morla out into the hallway where she could speak with Matheas—or rather just be spoken to.

Clef sat on a chair inside the door. "I need you to come with me immediately," he told her. She only nodded her head. "Zamah has wanted me for a while now to provide her with proof of your abilities, and to determine if you are material for the job she wishes to assign. Now's your chance." The human could only nod her head and stare wide-eyed at her tutor. He leaned down, then, and whispered in her ear: "You cannot bring anyone with you. I will go with you to the giant."

Clef heard a noise and leaned out into the hall. He was suspicious of the entire scourge; when he saw that both the undead man and Morla had disappeared, he roared loudly and stood, breathless, in the hallway, before sitting down outside the door to wait for her to come back; there was little else he could do.

--

Matheas had never shown Morla his own skills, and she had never wondered. He had summoned them outside, and she felt for a moment that everything was moving too quickly; she felt like she was caught in Matheas's whirlwind, and she couldn't get out. They stood in the middle of a great expanse of grass, and the mountains rose high to the north and west. Matheas was silent and did not once look at her. He kept his face trained ahead and the features she had once thought were soft and friendly were rough, as if the flesh of him was beaten by the wind that burned on that cold night.

As they waited and seconds passed, Morla felt a rumble. It was more of a vibration that could not be heard, but went through the ground and up into her bones like an electric current. There came another rumble soon after the first, and they continued ever stronger, rapidly, like footsteps. Soon the vibrations could be heard and Morla realized what giant Matheas had spoken of.

She looked up. The creature, bluish-green skinned, appeared above them very suddenly, a beast emerging from the darkness. The moonlight shone on his immense form, which towered what she imagined to be at least thirty feet, if not forty. He was bigger than a building, and carried an enormous hammer in one arm that looked like it should drag the whole beast to the ground. However, he swung it up and over one shoulder like it was weightless. He took the land with great ease, agility, and speed, all lent by his immense size: he came from the mountains, Morla could tell at once, and would be upon Thunder Bluff in a few minutes' time. Staring up at him, she knew what Matheas had brought her here for.

Alrash sprung from a little wisp of smoke, spinning on one foot before hopping over to stand beside his master. Matheas looked at Morla.

"Bring me that," he said, pointing up at the monster. Morla followed his gaze to a jewel embedded in the giant's forehead, which glittered like a third eye. As the two stared, the giant slowed in his incredible step and looked down—directly at them. Before Morla could glance at her teacher for reassurance, he disappeared.

Morla was stone paralyzed when the immense creature howled, and raised his hammer high above his head with both hands. She imagined the giant using all the force in his body to swing it down, the flat end coming with her right standing right in the middle of its shadow, where she would then be crushed beneath it, her body mangled and broken to become one with the earth again.

Time seemed to slow down and she imagined a curse in her mind, the only thing she could think of to stop her destruction. She recited the words, moving her lips only a little.

She felt the wind on her face, but the shadow above her hadn't moved. She stared up.

The giant was fixated on her, holding his hammer with one hand. The other went to his side, which bubbled. There was a roar of pain, loud enough to wake the city lying miles away; it reverberated off the mountains and echoed throughout the valley of Mulgore. It rattled Morla's very bones. The giant hefted the hammer back and Morla took the opportunity to run at least twenty more feet away, where Alrash came up beside her. "Shall I go at him?"

Morla held one hand to him, watching the beast writhe in pain, and then nodded her head. Alrash immediately fired a blast; the fireball hit him in the shoulder and he spun around, one hand on his horrible wound, the other launching the hammer into the ground somewhere off to the side, where the giant must have imagined the blast came from. The hammer was quickly lifted back up and Morla saw an incredible crater where it had landed in the ground.

The giant saw them again, then, and rushed forward—which only required a few heart-stopping steps. Morla immediately summoned a shadow bolt and released it at his face. He roared again and dropped the hammer this time; Alrash had to jump-leap out of the way to avoid being hit by the house-long handle. Watching the giant clutch his face and lean over in agony, the warlock knew she had him stunned for a moment's time—long enough to deliver the finishing blow. She formed the fire in her hands and began to call up her power from the ground, and what lie beneath it. What Morla didn't see coming was the giant's hands, which suddenly left his face and he focused one eye on her—the one that wasn't nearly melted over—and grabbed her easily. Immediately Alrash released another few fireballs, but the giant ignored them like they were fleabites and opened his great mouth.

For the second time, Morla imagined her death: she would be chewed up and crushed in those immense fangs like a bug. Her guts would splatter all over the lolling purple tongue. As she approached the wide, foul mouth, she unconsciously released the flame she had summoned, and the damned beast lit on fire like a holiday bonfire.

Morla was dropped from the giant's crushing fingers. She landed on something soft, blue, and warm; when she looked up, feeling slightly dizzy from the rush and from her squished guts, she saw the giant dwarfed by two familiar-looking red demons, their arms bound with gold bracers, their mouths forming and disappearing, spitting fire and smoke. They looked crazed but focused, and cries of rage rolled off of them like water, making a high-pitched, ethereal sound. The giant's eyes rolled back into his head.

Her enemy let out one last panicked breath as the demons seemed to melt and drift together, forming a great flame around him. The giant disappeared in the inferno and there was a great, bloody howl, and the wall of flame seemed to contract; it squeezed itself together like elastic and blood sprouted from the top in a geyser, raining bits and pieces of the giant onto the grass. Morla was kept at a safe distance, inexplicably.

When all sound had faded, the two demons separated and slowly disintegrated, shrinking and shrinking until they wailed and disappeared into two little sparks on the grass. Morla was set down on her feet and she turned to look at her savior.

A voidwalker, eyes glowing and unfocused, hovered in front of her. With a sudden lurch the shadowy, smoky bottom of it was sucked into an invisible hole in the ground, and with a loll of the head, the voidwalker was digested by the earth with a slurp. Where it had been Morla saw a little black bracer, which she held up; looking down at her bandaged arm, she slipped off the wrapping and put the bracer on over the mark instead. It felt pleasantly warm, and it seemed to her like the right thing to do.

Alrash came up to her then and said, "He'll be here in one moment. You'd best get it." The imp pointed toward the bloody mess that was scattered all about and among ripped innards something glittered, even in the dull starlight. Morla immediately went to it and without flinching she pulled out the great, bloody jewel, red in color and perfectly cut. She held it up to the light.

"I'll have that," she heard Matheas say, and she turned around to give it to him. The undead warlock looked at her then, his eyes far less soft and friendly than she remembered. "So, you can summon demons." He sucked in and ticked his partially-maimed tongue against the roof of his mouth. Then, he cleaned the jewel with a dirty rag and tucked it in his pocket. "Come on," he said, "we'll go back."

And so they did.

--

The next morning, Clef didn't wake her. Instead, Morla opened her eyes to a high sun and the scent of a warm breakfast.

The tauren sat at the table, smoothing a bar of gold with a special stone. The sound was loud, and Morla was surprised she hadn't woken up sooner. She crawled out of bed and came up to the table behind Clef. Taking his long hair in her hands, she began to weave it together, starting at the top and slowly working down so that no rogue pieces came out from sloppiness. When she finished, she tied it with a dark blue ribbon she had lying on the bed table and pushed it over his shoulder.

They sat quietly, eating. After Clef finished—he ate far faster than she—he turned to her and spoke. "Your teacher said you didn't have to come in today. You could rest. He asked me to stay with you." His eyes narrowed. "W-what did you h-have to do?"

Morla put down her fork and looked ahead for a moment, then signed, "I killed a giant."

"What do they want n-now?" He cleared his throat, and Morla thought he looked nervous. She placed one hand on his arm. "W-what are they g-going to m-make you do?" His nostrils flared and she noticed a bead of nervousness in his green eyes. She couldn't imagine what he was worried about. She had defeated the giant, hadn't she?

Morla shrugged off Clef's worry and signed, "I'm fine." The tauren kept his eyes on her for some moments, and then without warning he grabbed her in his arms and hugged. Morla gasped when he squeezed tighter.

"You never understand," he told her, and she could feel his breath on her hair. "N-n-never. I o-overheard them t-talking. They w-want someone to g-go in. You'll be a spy." Morla couldn't sign with her hands stuck between them. "You'll be caught."

The human put her hands on his chest and slowly pushed him away. Clef stared at her in confusion as she stood up and turned around, pressing her hands to her thighs. "I will be fine," she signed to him, not looking back. "I can take care of myself."

When Morla looked back, she saw that Clef had stood up and opened the door. He went out, without a word, and closed it behind him.

--

Morla sat up late that night, waiting for Clef to come back. She pondered his reaction. Was he so concerned over something so trivial? She had proven herself. She trusted Zamah—specifically, she trusted Matheas. Of course Clef couldn't understand her trust, but she hoped that he at least would trust her.

She sat on the bed and pulled her knees up to her chest, still unable to understand why he would seem to be almost offended by her certainty. Morla thought and thought, and she couldn't come up with a good reason for Clef's attitude. So she decided to wait and ask him.

One hour after midnight, the door opened. All the lights were off, and Clef kept them that way when he came in, expecting to see Morla asleep so that he could bypass her altogether. Instead, he saw movement on the bed, and hastily turned on the light. "What are you doing awake?" he asked, lightly baring his big teeth in a reflexive gesture. He came over to the bed and stood there, but didn't sit down. Morla sat up so she was on her knees. She reached up, brushing her hands over the big gold ring he had recently put in his nose, and traveled up his furry face to his wide, white-grey horns. He sighed then and put his hands on her shoulders.

"Girl," he said to her, "you're just a girl. You're my girl. And I don't know what those undead magicians want with you. You're human—you must remember this." Morla nodded her head, and carefully and gently, Clef lifted her up into his arms, holding her palms with one hand and her waist with another. He sat down on the bed and she curled up in his lap, her face pressed against the soft, white fur of his chest. She stroked it. There they sat in silence, until morning came.


	7. Chapter 7

**The Traitor**

**Chapter Seven**

"I have been informed of your victory," Zamah said that morning, and Morla coughed from the smoke pouring out of a fizzling green vial. The woman shook the vial and set it down on the little wooden workbench, wiped her hands on a towel and exhaled.

Morla looked around, curiously, and then signed, "Where is Matheas?" She wanted to see her teacher. She knew he had been watching. A deeper, vainer part of her wanted to know what he thought; if he had liked her performance; if he approved. Zamah raised one eyebrow.

"He left." The apothecary dismissively waved her hand. "Anyway, I want to talk to you about where your training will go next. I have a job for you." Morla felt her heart sink. He had left without saying good-bye? She knew they were only pupil and teacher, but she had felt a certain companionship with the undead warlock. Beneath the rotting skin and lipless mouth was a person she felt was truly a friend. There was a feeling of betrayal, but she quickly squashed it and focused on what Zamah had to tell her.

--

Sure enough, Morla was to be a spy. Zamah assured the girl that she was still being tested, and she wouldn't have big jobs for some time yet: her ability needed to be assessed further, and as she put it, "We have to fully consider your loyalty to the Horde and its purposes." This comment made Morla itch, but she disregarded it.

They were sending her to the Eastern Kingdoms, first. "You will need a disguise," Zamah told her. "You are an entity not yet known to the Horde beyond Thunder Bluff. Chief Bloodhoof will be ordering your tauren friend to escort you there." Morla was silent and kept her face unexpressive, though it pleased her to have Clef go along with her for her first mission. "You will travel to a small village in the hills of Hillsbrad; there, you will bring me samples of the vegetation they grow there. It is a farming town. Do this however you can. You can buy whatever you like from the tailor to disguise yourself." Zamah took a breath then and then, with a serious look in her faintly glowing eyes, she said, "Good luck, human. There's nothing else I can give you. If you succeed in this, there are many places your life will go. The path you choose will make you plain, or exceptional. It is up to you."

Clef seemed to be surprisingly satisfied with this outcome, and he immediately set to preparing their trip. He showed her maps he had bought and kept in the drawers, and they looked over them to find the best route to Hillsbrad. While Clef had some trouble with them, Morla immediately caught on to the style of them and deciphered on a separate piece of paper the legend of the map. "It looks like we have to fly to Orgrimmar," she signed, making a distasteful face and sticking out her tongue, "and take the zeppelin from there to the Undercity. Then, we'll go by bat to the Tarren Mill, in Hillsbrad. We will separate there."

Clef growled. "What if a Horde sees you?"

"I'll kill them." She turned a very serious face on her friend, and he swallowed. "You won't have to worry about me. I passed my test," she signed to him. Clef nodded, clearly unconvinced, and left soon after to arrange a wyvern flight.

They went together later that afternoon to the tailoring shop, where Clef spoke for her with the head tailor about possible disguises. A traveling salesman, she surmised she could be. Or perhaps a farmgirl. "You'll want to see if you can test their wares," Clef said. "Maybe you should just say you are an adventurer and you need to buy some supplies."

This seemed reasonable, and they pooled what remained of their funds together, and put it in a small pouch that Morla could take with her. They fitted her out with what the tailor considered to be reasonable clothing for the role the warlock was to assume. From a weapon master, she bought a staff—which she didn't know how to use—and declared that they were ready to go.

The day they had arranged to leave, a messenger came to the door. "I have a delivery for a Miss Morla Stronghorn," The messenger held out a small wooden box to Clef, who took it and gave the tauren girl a few coppers for her time. She quickly left and he closed the door.

"What's this?" he asked, giving her the box. Morla shrugged her shoulders and told him with her hands, "No idea." She opened the box and let out a little breath.

She turned it around to show to Clef. "Pretty jewel," he said, looking at it. The ruby glittered brightly, and when Morla held it in her hand, she realized just how large it really was—nearly two inches across. A stone like it had to be manufactured. It couldn't be real. She remembered how it had been, embedded into the great giant's forehead, and she clasped it tightly in her palm. Who had left this for her? Matheas? Zamah? Clef looked at her curiously. "What is it?"

Morla only shook her head and put the jewel back in the box, which she then placed in the bag she hung from her belt. She would take it with her, in case she ever needed money; then she would sell it for all the gold it was worth. Clef seemed to forget the issue then and they left the inn, reserving their rooms so they could keep their things there while they were gone. Not that the Thunder Bluff inn was very busy, anyway.

They took a wyvern over the mountains, across the desolate flats of the Barrens and Durotar before arriving in Orgrimmar late that night. Morla kept her cloak on and the hood over her head so her face was hidden in shadows. It was her first time in the incredible city—and Clef's second—and she was nearly run over by kodo, wolves, raptors and skeletal horses more times than she could count. Clef kept her close to him and acted like a battering ram, pushing past great crowds of people as they wound their way from the wyvern tower to the immense front gates of Orgrimmar.

The sun had long gone down when they finally made their way out of the metropolis. They walked a short way to the zeppelin stop. A goblin told them, "You made it just in time. The last zeppelin is leaving for the night in a few minutes." They hurried up the stairs and made it onto the great flying ship just before it departed from the station.

They found rooms in the great bottom of the ship, and when they awoke the next morning, they were flying over the great, dark forests of Tirisfal Glades.

"It may be better," Clef said, "to come back through Booty Bay."

Morla gave him a quizzical look. "It's neutral. You're less likely to be... detected." He let out a sigh, and then pulled out a small bottle from his pocket. Making sure the door was closed, he instructed her to lean back, and he sprayed something on her that burned her skin when it made contact, and then the feeling faded away. She scowled at him. "They can smell you. Those s-skeletons can s-smell a human a m-mile away." He shook the bottle and put it away. "I bought that as a part of your disguise." With his great nose, he inhaled her smell, shuddered, and nodded. "That will do."

The zeppelin approached the tower and settled beside the off ramp. Morla stayed close behind Clef as they navigated down the tower and into the great Undercity.

Through the front gates of the ruins, Morla felt a shiver run down her spine. The place was cold—far colder than home, she thought. A few warriors went by them, mostly undead, going in and out of small tunnels guarded by immense, grotesque creatures. Some had two heads, and most had great, open wounds with guts spilling out of them like rejected laboratory creations. They paid the travelers no heed, distracted by their own stupidity.

They got on the elevator and when it began to descend, Morla felt a sudden warmth through the bag at her side. Curious, she opened it and saw that the little wooden box was glowing with a reddish hue. Removing it, and feeling the heat did come from it, she took out the gem. As the elevator dropped it grew warmer and brighter, until they settled inside the city. Clef looked at it as they stepped off the elevator. "Odd," he said.

They followed signs to the bat keeper, and as they walked, the gem began to grow cold again. "Hold on," Morla signed to Clef, who stopped and watched her. When she stopped walking it stopped changing; when she walked backwards a few feet, it grew warmer again. "I think it wants me to go somewhere," she told him with her fingers.

"Well..." Clef took the gem in one hand, and Morla's arm in the other. "Let's follow it."

They maneuvered back the way they had come, but when they passed the tunnel from where the elevator had come, it began to grow cold again, so they shifted directions and decided to press into one of the quarters. Luckily, Morla thought, there were plenty of maps and signs telling them what lay in which direction, despite the ancient quality of the ruins and the city.

It was like playing a childhood game: they went one way, and the gem cooled, so they went the other. Eventually, they made their way into a far part of the city: the apothecary. It surely wasn't a coincidence, Morla knew. Someone was bringing them there. A few of the undead they passed looked at Morla, but figured she was no more than one of their own, too disfigured to show her face.

After nearly two hours of navigating, the gem turned a very bright red and Morla nearly dropped it from the heat. She gave it to Clef, whose thick fur protected him, and they looked around for whatever the gem had led them to.

Morla let out a voiceless whimper. Matheas smiled at her where he sat at a desk, just inside a little shack-like building, propped up against one of the ancient stone walls. They were on the very outskirts of the city, where vagrants, rats, and the brave practiced their crafts. He was writing out something on a long sheet of paper when the pair came in, and somehow the door closed behind them with a creak and a slam.

"I was wondering when you would come upon me," he said, "though this was far sooner than I expected." Morla stared at him for a moment, and then began to sign hastily. Seeing that the undead man couldn't understand her, Clef translated.

"She wants to know why you left without saying goodbye to her. She also wants to know what the big pretty jewel is for," he told Matheas, who only nodded his head.

"Oh, Morla," he said, with a slight laugh in his croupy voice. "You have been my best pupil. I brought you here because I want to tell you something about this jewel." He came around the desk then and pulled up her hood. With one hand, flesh melted away from two of the fingers, he took the ruby from her open hand and held it up to the faint lamplight. "I know of a man that will make this into a necklace just for you. Morla, you will always have trouble in this world: you are mute, you are naive, and you are human. But I created this gem for you, and it will solve all of your problems. Except for being ignorant." He laughed. "I assume you are going on a mission for Zamah?"

Morla nodded.

"Then take the jewel to this man. He will make it into a necklace for you, which will channel the spell I have put into it." Matheas wrote out something on a small piece of paper and gave it to her. "It will take a very long time, but it is the only thing I can give you." The zombie smiled at her and she smiled back, slowly nodding her head. "You taught even me a few things. I hope you make something great of yourself." He kneeled down then, in front of her, for standing, he was nearly a foot and a half taller than she. "When you toppled that giant, I saw your demons—your caretakers. Someone is watching you, always beware of that. You must take caution with your power. These kinds of abilities are not freely given." He lightly touched her, never her skin directly, but he rubbed her shoulder where her shirt protected her. "There will always be someone out to get you, whether it is the Borders, Zamah, or Thrall himself. Know that, and be prepared. Should you ever need me, the jewel will lead you there." Matheas smiled a broad smile, where one could see his grimy teeth and molding jaw bone. Morla gave him a confused expression. The Borders? Thrall? She furrowed her brow, but he quickly distracted her by waving one hand dismissively.

Morla felt her stomach lurch when Matheas led them out the door and put her hood back on over her head. "Now, listen to me. I want you to do everything that you're told to do, unless you know it means certain death. Only then can you run away." He pressed the ruby into her hand then and closed her fingers around it. He looked up at Clef and nodded his head. "Now go on. I'm sure you have places to be. See me again sometime."

With that, he went back into the shack and closed the door behind him, leaving the two to stand out in the middle of the small square. The tauren and human exchanged looks, and then looked at the paper. It had an address on it that appeared easy enough to follow, but to make sure, they found one of the grotesque horrors that stood at every other intersection and Clef asked how to get to the shop.

"Jeweler, center, near bank," the monster groaned, and a bit of pus oozed from its mouth. Morla hurriedly went past it, holding her nose, and Clef followed.

The Undercity was a relatively empty place, compared to Orgrimmar, and they had a much easier time navigating it without crowds blocking their movement. Morla wasn't sure what Matheas had meant when he gave the gem to her, but she figured she would do as he asked. She didn't have much capacity to question authority, and Clef didn't have much capacity to question her. With this combination, they went quietly to the shop and Clef did the talking. He gave the address, which had a note scribbled on it in a language he couldn't understand, to the zombie man working at the front desk of the shop. He looked up at the tauren and furrowed his brow, but didn't say anything else and held out his hand. Clef took the jewel from Morla and gave it to him.

"It will be ready in about seven months," he said. "This kind of project will take a very long time. I will forward the payment request to Brownwater, like he asked." When Clef and Morla didn't move to leave, the man cleared his throat.

Interpreting Morla, Clef asked, "Seven months?"

"Probably closer to a year. Lots of procuring and aging required. Come back later." The tauren furrowed his brow, but turned around and left anyway.

--

Sitting at his desk, Matheas remembered what Zamah had first told him. "The pupil is a human. A living, breathing human. I have been contracted by Cairne Bloodhoof to prepare her, and I will further subcontract to you. There is a lot of money in this, Matheas. I trust you will be able to deal with her, even if she is human. She's got something different about her. She was raised by tauren, or something." The apothecary shrugged her shoulders, and Matheas nodded.

"What do you want me to teach her?"

"All the tricks of the forsaken warlock that you can. I want her to find loyalty in her power. She must be as docile as possible, but have the kind of cruelty that I know you yourself wield: the same kind of emotion that has kept you from the great ranks. Only if she is this docile to command will Sylvanas accept her. This is my goal, you see." Zamah smiled, baring her teeth, and flicked back some of her thin hair. "This is Cairne's goal, as well—only to be rid of her. He can't stand to see your poisoned kind here. He knows only that her contract will move upwards. I will determine to where."

Matheas took this insult easily. "What of you, then? Are you not one of us?" With a laugh, Zamah turned around and busied herself with her potions.

"Never," she said. "You warlocks are a breed of your own."

Just like the little human girl, Matheas was a pawn in the plan, as well—but at least he knew it. He leaned back in his chair and hoped the jewel would help her. Of course he wanted success for the Horde; however, he wanted his own success even more, and so he implanted his posture in the little human. With his powers of foreseeing, he could prepare her, and keep her from the position he wanted so badly for himself.

--

Morla stood very much alone, dressed in a hat, grey pants, and a loose, white shirt. She had on a backpack—which used to be her cloth belt bag—that was held to her with suspenders. She kicked her boots together to push them on and stood on the side of the road, looking either direction to make sure no one was coming. She crossed the road and got on a path that wove up away, through an open field, and toward the hills. A few birds sang, but Hillsbrad was mostly a silent place. Bears hid in the trees, and lions roamed the open meadows in prides; they mostly left her alone as she passed. Beside a far hill she saw the fenced-off, tilled fields and thatched roofs of the farming community.

A few footmen posted out of the town looked at her curiously, but beyond that they didn't bat more than an eyelash. One in particular, a man with an overlarge steel helmet and fluttery, dark brown hair stared at her, and when she looked back at him, he hastily coughed and stood up straight. He kept his eyes ahead but once she had passed, Morla felt his intent gaze on her once more and it gave her a tingle in her back. She jogged ahead until he looked away.

As she approached the center of the town, she admired the peaceful atmosphere of the place. Peasants worked the fields, plowing and picking, carrying baskets on their shoulders and talking to the farmers who oversaw them. As she approached the center of town, she saw activity in the blacksmith and the city council center. Here she stopped and listened for a few moments to a conversation between a footman and a councilman, hoping to reorient herself to Common after a long absence.

"There is movement at the Mill," she heard the man say, and she recognized him as the same footman that had looked at her. He had his helmet off now, and his curly brown hair clung to his face in a rather charming manner. He had a boyishness about him when he addressed his superior. "We've sent two more men to investigate."

"I see," the councilman replied, holding his robe with one hand. "Do we know which direction they are going?"

"There has been a caravan of undead traveling to and from Arathi recently," the footman told his boss. "We haven't followed them successfully, so I can't say where they are headed." Morla decided to tune out at that moment should they notice she was eavesdropping. Walking around the fence of a field, she made her way to the nearest farmhouse she saw, where two farmers stood outside talking under a verandah.

One saw her, then, and smiled a radiant smile. "Look at that," he said, "a traveler. You won't find any stores here, missy!" The two farmers laughed, both blonde—and looking rather like brothers—and had an air that was genuinely pleasant. She decided they would be all right to approach. When she said nothing, the older-looking farmer raised one eyebrow.

"Is there something we can do for you?" he asked her, leaning over a little when he spoke. Morla knew she was short, but his movement was condescending. She quickly gestured to her muteness by holding her throat with one hand and making a cutting motion with her other hand. The two men exchanged looks and one smiled.

"A mute, hm? How did you manage to become an adventurer with a condition like that?" They laughed. Morla let out a sigh and took off her backpack, which she jangled to show that it was empty. Then, she pulled out three very large pieces of gold.

Their laughter was suddenly cut short. The first man coughed, then, and said, "I see. Well, my name is Burgess. This is my brother, Ray." He offered his hand then, which Morla easily took and shook.

Ray piped in. "Though we don't have any stores, each farm here specializes in a certain product. We raise tomatoes and potatoes here; the farm up the road has livestock, another raises horses, and two others grow corn and wheat." He looked directly at the valuable pieces she held and cleared his throat. "For a small fee, we could collect any number of things you would require for your travels."

This was exactly the result Morla had been looking for. She rigorously nodded her head and flashed the biggest, most endearing smile that she could. The two men looked immediately charmed with her. "Can you write, then, what you would like? Come inside—it's too hot outside for business." Flashing one another thumbs up, the two led her to the farmhouse sitting on the far side of the field.

--

An hour later, Morla came out of the compound carrying her own bag plus another quite full. She had bread, cheese, vegetables, and some fruit from the trees behind the brothers' farm. Anything Zamah found irrelevant, Morla figured, she could keep for herself. Real human food was a kind of exotic treat, and she planned on fully taking advantage of it.

Walking down the same path she had come up on, the girl was noticed once again by the footman with the overlarge helmet. Rather than looking shy this time, he gave her a tentative smile and she saw him cock one foot. She couldn't help but smile back, and the poor man's throat choked up. He turned his head to cough, and when he looked back, Morla was gone.

She hurried down the path and across the road, where she hid in a small grove of trees. There, she replaced her disguise with her regular clothes and went down to the stream where she would wait for Clef to come for her.

Morla waited beside the little rock for nearly an hour. She pulled off a hunk of the soft, white bread and ate it, and took a drink from the water skin she had filled there as well. This sated her for the moment and she pulled loose strings from her cloak to entertain herself. When far too long had passed, she came closer to the road and was about to look around, when she heard two very deep voices arguing in Orcish.

"I'll put a drill bit through his neck if he doesn't have my metal smelted," one voice said, female-sounding. "Don't think I won't do it."

The second voice laughed, a rather familiar-sounding laugh—touchy and with a bit of a rough shake—and replied, "I wouldn't doubt you for a minute. But think of it this way: at least he's getting action. When was the last time you saw someone naked?"

"Very good point," the first voice snarled.

"Of course." Morla quickly covered her mouth, as if there was any way she could make a noise, and peered around the tree at the two voices.

Her eyes flew wide. Not wanting to jump out in front of them and make a scene in front of the tauren, she remained hidden and instead went back to her spot by the river, where she had left her bags. She easily strapped one on and carried the other with a single hand. The voices continued on and she followed them along the road, hoping by some chance that one would find a reason to walk away.

After a few minutes, though, the pair stopped talking and their steps evened, and Morla recognized that they planned to maintain a course for some time. This called for desperate measures.

Alrash answered his mistress's call, immediately arching himself for battle. However, when he saw no enemies in sight, he glared at her. She put a finger to her lips, asking for silence, and relayed to him exactly what she wanted him to do.

The tauren and troll stopped quite suddenly when a little flaming imp wandered across the path directly in front of them. "What the..." the tauren stared at him and when he was in front of her, Alrash turned his head and immediately conjured a fireball. "Warlock! Look for the warlock!"

The pair were in battle positions. The spotted tauren engaged Morla's imp without hesitation, taking the great sword off her back and slashing with speed, but little accuracy, at the little demon. Alrash quickly began to dodge and jog, pulling the druid off the road; infuriated with Alrash's speed, she summoned her cat form and the chase began.

The troll stood, watching for a few moments, before he turned around to look for the warlock that the creature belonged to. He looked one way and then another, and made the motion of turning back when he saw Morla.

She stood in front of him, hood drawn over her face, hardly five feet tall. Her hands hung out of her cloak and it was obvious enough that she was human. "There you are," the troll growled, holding his hands together to bring up a totem. However, his purplish arms went slack when Morla took off her hood and stared up at him.

Lo'jar did not have a response; instead, his jaw slipped open as if he had forgotten about it, and his tongue lolled a little out of his mouth. He looked at her more closely to make sure it was the right girl, and when he recognized the sincere look in her big, brown eyes, he took a swift two steps forward and swept her up into his grasp.

Morla let out a little surprised breath when the half-troll squeezed her against him, nearly pushing all the air from her lungs. When she began to gag he put her down, but he didn't let go of her shoulders. "Oh, dear, what are you doing here?" he asked in a low, desperate tone. He had a great smile on his face, but his eyebrows tilted up in an expression that Morla found a little sad. "This isn't where you should be. No, where is Clef? That idiot, I'll kill him for letting you leave alone!" Lo'jar let go of the girl and shook one fist, now tightening his lips.

Sighing, the girl grabbed his hands roughly in hers and pulled them towards her to get his attention. The troll quickly looked at her and she shook her head, signing, "I'm all right. I'm working."

Lo'jar raised one eyebrow. "Working?" he asked. Morla nodded her head.

"They trained me. Now I'm working." She gestured to the bags on her shoulders. "I'm supposed to meet Clef here. He's late."

At that moment, they heard a yelp, and the tauren woman ran right by them holding her rear end, with her tail sticking straight out behind her. She was on fire, and Alrash chased her, arms raised, carrying a fireball, and laughing hysterically. "Did you organize this disruption?" Lo'jar asked, pointing to the druid that had circled around and was attempting to change into her bear form. The girl nodded her head and smiled shyly.

"It's really all right," Lo'jar said. "This is Koya. Koya! Stop it! He won't hurt you." These seemed to be magic words and the tauren stopped, bounced up to where the troll stood, and shifted rapidly back into her normal self. Alrash, seeing that he wasn't needed, disappeared.

"What? A human?" The tauren immediately lifted her sword.

"No, no, it's all right. Stop it, Koya." Lo'jar bopped her on the head—and how this was possible considering the tauren's height, Morla didn't know—and pointed to her. "This is a friend of mine. Morla, meet Koya. She's my cousin." Easily the human stepped forward and offered a hand. Koya was far less eager and gave Lo'jar a warning look.

"This is your warlock? She's a child!" The tauren stomped one foot. "I thought you were just making things up, honestly." She let out a breath and only with great effort did she take Morla's hand in her own, which she quickly shook and released.

"Now, why would I do that?" Lo'jar asked, elbowing her in the side. He looked back down at the human. "Where is your caretaker, by the way?"

Morla only shrugged her shoulders and looked at her wrist, where she would have given the time had she actually had a watch. Lo'jar nodded his head in understanding. Leaning forward, he pulled her hood back up over her head and patted her. "Just in case somebody comes by," he told her, and took her by the wrist. Koya looked wary as she followed the half-troll and the girl off the road and down to the same place Morla had been waiting before. There, the tauren assumed a bored look and wandered off into the woods, promising in Taurahe to be back when the girl was gone. She wasn't going to be associated with humans, she said. Understanding every word, Morla only remained quiet.

"What have you been doing since I left?" he asked, taking out his makeup to add onto that still on his face. Morla told him quickly what she could of her teacher and her tasks at the apothecary. "Then you're here on a mission?" The girl nodded and lifted the bag she hefted over one shoulder to show to him. "I see. Well, you're perfect for that, then." Lo'jar smiled.

At that moment, Clef came barreling down the side of the road, from a steep incline to the top of the stream where the pair sat. He launched himself into Lo'jar and the two went flying with a yelp from the shaman and a roar from the warrior. They rolled across the grass and somehow wheeled back to the riverside, where they intercepted a rather large group of boulders and both the assailant and the assailed cried out in pain. "You big oaf!" The half-troll cried, managing to free himself from Clef, and he got to his feet. He took some steps back. "What do you think you're doing?"

Clef stood then and looked at Lo'jar, then rubbed his head. "I thought you was troll." He looked over at Morla, who had her arms crossed and was giving him an exasperated look. The tauren smiled guiltily, and Lo'jar only dusted himself off and disregarded the interruption.

"As lovely as this is," he said to Morla, voice far more brusque than it had been, "I've got to be going. My cousin is very intent on a purchase and we must hurry along." The girl frowned at his change in attitude. He made a brushing motion with one hand. Clef gave them both a curious look, and then replied, "S-s-sure. We're j-just about to b-be going, too." Clearing his throat, he took Morla by the arm and she would have objected if she could, but she only held on and turned her head as she was dragged away.

Lo'jar kept his eyes down, brow furrowed, and when he thought she would be distracted, he looked up. Instead, their gazes met and immediately, the half-troll felt his insides surge. Silently, he signed to her, "I'll see you soon." Confusion flashed across her face, but Lo'jar turned away and called out to his tauren relative, who had wandered off.

Morla left with his cryptic message in her mind, and shrugged off Clef's hand so she could walk on her own.


	8. Chapter 8

_Soo uh, sorry this sucks. There will be goodness for you tomorrow, so check back then. This is just stuff that needed to get done._**  
**

**The Traitor**

**Chapter Eight**

"This audience is an honor," the tauren said in his guttural voice, forcing the formality.

"Stand up, my friend," the orc replied, walking over to the table on the side of the small room. "Drink?"

"Always," Cairne replied, coming over to take the cup offered to him.

"So then, moving along, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Cairne cleared his throat, and from his pocket he removed the little rolled-up note and the small, black stone. Walking over to the orc, who was of rather unusual and incredible size, Cairne gave him the two items and then stepped back once more. Thrall gave his fellow chief a quizzical look.

"I have in my possession a weapon of rather important power," the tauren explained. He gestured to the note, and Thrall opened it. He read quickly, and his brow furrowed. "The little human has been serving me and Apothecary Zamah for some time. She is an unusual creature."

"You've been harboring a human?" Thrall's tone was more irritated than incredulous.

Cairne only nodded his head and went on. "She has been loyally working for the Horde's purposes for some time now. I believe what this old woman said, for never has she been wrong in a prediction. I have also been informed that the girl may provide some clues to hidden activities by the scourge; I can give more details on this later, when you receive her."

The chief cleared his throat and waited for Thrall to respond. He was silent and looked over the note a few times, clenching the rock in one hand until his knuckles turned white. After a very long moment he took a deep breath.

"I wouldn't know what to do with her," the orc told his friend quite honestly, his expression changing from frustration to hopelessness. He threw both the note and the rock down on the table beside his throne chair and began to pace. He stroked his chin a few times.

"She is proficient at infiltration," Cairne began, "but there is much more to her than that. She was trained by Matheas Brownwater, the undead warlock." Thrall's head jerked up. "Yes, I know you recognize the name. He cultivated her. She is loyal to the Horde, and I believe she can become our best kept secret. The girl is still young in human terms. Train her right, and we could take out our enemies from the inside."

The orc sat down on his chair with a very heavy sound and rubbed his forehead. "This is going to need some thought." Cairne nodded. "I can't guarantee I'll take her off your hands. I will consider your offer." The two chiefs shook hands and when the tauren left, Thrall murmured something under his breath and hid away both the objects in a drawer.

--

Zamah was extremely satisfied with her protégé, but Morla only watched the apothecary in boredom until she was dismissed.

This was how the next few months went on. Every day she went to the pools and was taught a new recipe, and ordered to gather a certain type and amount of herb. She would be informed of her next mission, and Morla spent from one to two weeks creating the potion, disease or other type of alchemistic product she would need, gathering herbs from all over the world, until she was ready to leave. Not once did she return to the little village in the hills, though she was informed by Zamah that action had been taken on the part of the Mill and a good portion of the workers had been infected. Though none had died, the idea of diseasing the produce caught on and the forsaken worked ever harder to create the perfect plague.

Morla spent much of her time on the wyverns and bats, or the zeppelins and boats, trying her hardest not to think about how many lives she helped to take, how many lives she made miserable and hopeless. Slowly, she drew away from her people and Clef, and focused harder on her work. The tauren often awoke to the girl being gone, with a quick note left. "I'm practicing," she would say, and Clef found her those times behind the inn luring lions and wolves up onto the bluff for the purpose of obliterating them.

Though he knew he hadn't an incredibly sharp edge, Clef could observe, and he began to grow worried for his little human friend. She seemed to be with Alrash more than him recently, and she had come to signing what she felt less and less. However, her powers were growing again and this seemed to please her; when Morla was pleased, Clef usually was pleased, but he felt she had become dangerously engrossed in her self-improvement. When they were traveling, she often sought great opponents to test her abilities on, and never once did the tauren see her injured in battle. Though he should have been grateful for this, her aura of being untouchable worried him.

After a few months, Clef finally took the girl aside when they went downstairs for dinner one night. "I want to s-speak with y-you," he said, and Morla raised her eyebrows with worry. He shook his head. Rarely did the tauren stutter when speaking to her. "I think that y-you are t-taking this... this thing too seriously." Unsure of what to say, Clef rubbed his head and sat down on one of the big benches near the door of the inn. A traveler came in and spoke with the innkeeper, momentarily distracting him, until Morla retrieved his attention by placing a small hand on his arm. Clef cleared his throat.

"What I am s-saying is... is that I th-think that... that... you are being a-a-absorbed by it." He fiddled with his fingers. "T-take a b-break. There are m-more important th-th-things."

Morla laughed then, a silent expression, enunciated by a little hiss of air escaping. "More important?" she signed to him, and Clef was surprised that he could detect sarcasm in unspoken words. When she opened her hand to talk once more, they were interrupted by the innkeeper, who had approached without either of them noticing.

"This is for you," the keeper said, holding out a letter to Morla. Furrowing her brows and completely forgetting the discussion at hand, she took the note and opened it.

"Dear Morla," it read. "I write to you from Grom'gol, in Stranglethorn Vale. I am currently being held in a cell here for supposed theft and attempted murder—counts which I can attest to being a falsity, for reasons I cannot explain in this letter. What they do want is money. They will not review my case if they are presented with twenty-five gold. This is asking a lot, but I don't know of anyone else.

"Please write as soon as you can. I have faith in you, little human." There was a signature in Troll that Morla had trouble making out. Before Clef could snatch the letter away from her, she folded it back up and tucked it into her back pocket. He gave her an odd look.

"What was it?" She shook her head, and tuned her expression to one of disinterest.

"Nothing," she signed, and smiled. Swiftly changing the subject, Morla told him, "You may go with me to Booty Bay, but I will have to travel completely on my own to the rebel camp. Stranglethorn Vale is too busy and hostile for us to be caught together. I can take care of myself fine there."

Clef opened his mouth to object, but looking at the new hardness in his girl's brown eyes, he knew it would be of no use. Instead, the tauren sighed, nodded his head, and got up from the table without saying anything more. He went up the stairs and Morla took out her money bag to look through it. Only five gold. She grinned wickedly and put it away.

--

Zamah called Morla in the day before she was set to leave for her next mission.

"I have a summons for you," the apothecary said, putting away some of her things on the desk. "Cairne would like to have a word with you. Privately." She gave Morla a funny look, and the girl responded in like. "Don't worry, you won't need to talk back. In fact, I discourage it." The woman tucked her hands behind her back. "This may be the last favor you do for me." Morla winced when she forced a thin smile, contorting her little half-nose, and gestured off toward the little entrance to the pools. The warlock only nodded her head and left. Zamah said nothing else.

It was a short walk across the bridge and up to the top bluff, where she found the chief's longhouse. After she went in, two guards effectively blocked the door, and Morla was a little unnerved by the dark of the room. Cairne Bloodhoof sat in his fur-covered chair, his head cocked to one side and supported by his elbow on the chair's wooden arm. When she came in, he took a moment to look up at her.

"Ah," he said, leaning forward in the chair to examine her fully. "We need to make this quick. I will be sending you from my care to that of Thrall, chief of the Horde in Orgrimmar. You will no longer continue your training here or with Apothecary Zamah. However, he has yet to accept my offer of your loyalty." He rubbed his chin and there was a nervous smirk lingering on his lips; worried that he might be sending the innocent creature to her death, but also satisfied. She was almost out of his hands, and they were still bloodless.

Morla made no movement and kept her eyes steadily on the chief. "I have encouraged your powers because it may eventually ensure victory for the Horde. But know this: you are human, and you are not one of us. Whatever amnesty that is presented to you will be very different in the world outside of Mulgore, and you will only be accepted as long as you have value. Your fate is a tricky one, and I have no words of advice, because it matters little to me. The great chief already has your things, and should he decide to have you, you will leave promptly and never return."

He ushered her away and Morla was removed once more by the two guards. Outside, she was too curious about what Orgrimmar had in store for her to feel like a toy thrown away. She never thought of herself as human. It was only a physical appearance to her. How would she survive in a strange and hostile city? What would they have her do? She looked up and saw the sun was tipping down; she was due to return to the inn, where she and Clef would go over their trip schedule. She wouldn't mention what Cairne had told her to her friend, but she had one thought in her mind walking home:

Where were they taking her?

--

Clef and Morla had two routes: they could fly to Orgrimmar and go by zeppelin, or go to Booty Bay via Ratchet. "It would be easier to go through Grom'gol, much closer," Clef surmised, drawing the projected location with his finger. "The camp is here, right?" Morla nodded her head.

"Didn't you want to sell those gold bars? There is a market in Booty Bay for that sort of thing," she signed then. Morla had a very definite ulterior motive: she couldn't have Clef knowing what she was going to attempt to do. She had to have him somewhere out of the way. "We could even go through the Undercity. There are lots of ways to get there." She gave him the most charming smile she could muster, and Clef rubbed the back of his head.

"I suppose I could do that..." He looked at her, and knew she would be all right. There was a kind of disturbing confidence about her that he recognized; it was the confidence of someone who wasn't bluffing about her power. She was dangerous, and she wouldn't hide it. With a deep sigh Clef shrugged his shoulders submissively.

So it was they flew to the Crossroads, and caught a caravan to Ratchet, a day-long trip that Morla found simply agonizing hidden beneath the heavy dark cloak. Once there, however, they got to sit on the boat for another long period of time, all of which Morla spent in their room, undisguised, working on making shards and potions. She gave some to Clef to sell when they reached the bay, and the rest she kept in straps on her belt. She would use her recruit clothes for this particular mission, for all of the men at the rebel camp were soldiers, sent by Stormwind to halt the movement of the Horde from Grom'gol into Duskwood, an ever-increasing problem for the Alliance.

Zamah had carefully outlined what she was to do. "We need to find these men's weakness. Kurzen has been corrupted; all that remains is to find the best way to attack the camp, and the most pervasive and least aggressive method is preferred. If we can get away without enraging the humans against us any further—and keep them in their little provinces—then find a way to do so. You will be using some of the battle strategy you have been taught, and I anticipate your best. I cannot tell you what to expect of these men." That was all Morla was given.

In Booty Bay, they separated without many words between them. Morla could not ensure the tauren when she would be back, and he didn't ask. She thought Clef looked rather like a dejected puppy when he went off, but there was really nothing she wanted to do about it.

She made it to the fork in the road without much incident. She had taken off her cloak and walked swiftly along the side of the road, lurking in the jungle of Stranglethorn like a practiced tactician, rather than the novice she was. The landscape was entirely new and when she saw an immense ape lumbering past, all her expectations evaporated with a little wail. Panthers hid carefully and a few attacked her, none of which survived the encounter. However, it was the ruins she caught glimpses of during her two day-long trek that worried her; great painted trolls roamed about them, looking simply brutish and uncivilized, carrying axes over their shoulders and speaking in a strange, unfamiliar tongue with one another. These areas she scouted around but made sure to not be seen. Morla kept a map, and referred to it often when she came upon landmarks or signposts; thus, she was nearly certain she was in the right place when she saw the little dirt path disappearing off the road and into the deep jungle.

During her travel there, Morla had been hammering out the details of her plan in her mind. It would be tricky to pull off, but she was fairly certain that she could handle everything, as long as Lo'jar worked with her and did what he was told. She found the outpost by mid-afternoon, and remained there, sizing up the guards outside as evening fell.

She had one impeccable element on her side: her minions. A demon summoned from the nether could be defeated—wherein he would disappear to the underworld once more—but such creatures were never truly exterminated. With a few spells and some coaxing, any demon could be resurrected and back in action easily. Alrash was disposable, and so Morla discussed her idea with him. The imp was bored when she asked if he wouldn't mind being a distraction. "What have I got to lose? Honestly," he harped.

It was settled. When night fell, for every two guards, one switched in at the next shift change. Morla had climbed up into a tree just above one of the far edges of the great lumber fences, out of sight of the nearest guard post. The sharpened logs presented a problem at first, until she found a space intended for shooting down intruders—though in reality, it was only for target practice on wandering crocolisks. The opening was on one edge of the L-shaped guard post, so one could see the head of a troll bobbing as he paced back and forth on the platform. With a nasty grin she looked down to where Alrash waited, hidden in brush in the far middle of the same section of fence.

With the signal, the little imp conjured a great fireball and unleashed it onto the top part of the fence without hesitating. The logs exploded, sending great pieces of wood and millions of splinters flying; as Morla had hoped, the guard standing nearby howled in pain as shards went into his face and eyes. Immediately, all heads were turned, and there came a great ruckus of shouting and weapons and armor clinking. Trolls called to one another in both Orcish and Troll, though none of the various structures in the camp seemed to rouse beside the bored guardsmen. They were underestimating, as Morla had expected. When there didn't come another fireball, they seemed even less inclined to summon reinforcements, and Alrash easily climbed up the fence while the guard there was straining his vision to look into the woods for the intruder, rather than right below him.

The guard that had been injured was cleaning his wounds and surprisingly seemed all right; another guard had abandoned his post to take up his friend's. Though it wasn't her guard, as Morla had wanted, Alrash was well-prepared and when he had neared the top of the fence, he clasped one of the logs in his little hands and with a cackle, it began to flame.

Morla had to suppress a laugh when the whole damn fence lit on fire. The thatch spread from one guard post to the other as shelter from the frequent jungle rain, and it was prime tinder. The fire howled across the camp, billowing up when it reached the straw roofs on each corner. In the chaos Morla put on her fire cloak and waited for Alrash to jump. Once he had leapt over the top of the fence and landed on the guard's head, clawing at his eyes and lighting the poor creature on fire, she sprung from the tree and barely caught the opening she was aiming for with an immense animal claw she had tied onto a leather rope. Tugging on the rope to make sure it would hold, she began to pull herself up. She saw that the guard there had walked to the other side of the guard post to find whoever the little imp belonged to; Morla took the opportunity to deftly squeeze through the spot and, cloak over her head, she crawled down the ladder before the guard, a troll woman with a long, purple braid, could see her. Morla made sure that no one below was watching before she hopped down and began her most difficult task.

Alrash was making a fair nuisance of himself, having mauled one guard, and was blasting another with energy that Morla would have to reward him for later. Before even making it halfway up the ladder, the visiting guard was a singed corpse. Her imp looked hardly damaged, and Morla was pleasantly surprised to find she had very much underestimated her little minion.

Taking out the rather poorly-made dagger Matheas had given her their first day together, she walked up to the nearest creature she saw. She cursed him and while he gasped and moaned with pain, she stalked behind him and jammed the knife into his neck. She hadn't imagined herself to be much of an assassin, but this method seemed to be working out better than the one she had originally imagined.

However, the unarmed orc she murdered seemed to be one of a kind. While she looked around for the prison, or the building that might be housing it, she saw two heavy warriors run toward where Alrash was making an incredible racket, and Morla winced and hurried on faster when they sprung on her little imp. The demon howled and she saw him begin to fade from her inner vision.

"Got you," Morla heard a voice say, and instantly, she turned around. However, the tauren there was faster and caught her around the neck with one immense hand. "Think you're tricky, warlock?" The big grey beast was very little trouble—despite his physical superiority—and so she took the opportunity to look up at the building she had been standing next to when she was ambushed. It appeared to be a kind of town hall, and at once she knew she had gotten lucky. Lo'jar was here—she could feel him.

Morla looked up at the beast and grinned a very wide grin as the air to her lungs began to wear thin. She moved her lips to frighten the monster and when he was distracted, she stabbed him in the wrist. Surprised at her own agility, the warlock was dropped and bounced a few steps back, where she summoned the best shadow bolt she could.

Alrash winked out just as the ox fell to his knees, a green fog surrounding him as the bolt wove its way through his weak little nerves, boiling each one inside his thick-skinned body. From the wooden door of the building beside them came two more guards, both looking tired around the eyes and carrying crossbows. One stumbled, and the other was distracted by him; Morla took the opportunity to cast demon armor on herself, and just as the orc and troll trained their weapons on her, and the tauren recovered, all three of them exploded in flames.

There were howls of agony, but Morla rushed past them into the building. The guards seemed to have been the only two there, and she saw Lo'jar sitting behind bars in the very back of the main room, where there was one other empty cell and a desk on raptor bone legs. He stared at her incredulously, jaw slightly open, and she saw that his face had no makeup on and the silvery-purple markings on his face were clearer then, she mused, than the day he was born.

The half-troll lolled his tongue a few times before managing, eyes bulged out like saucers, "Why couldn't you just pay them?"

She shrugged her shoulders and signed, "I didn't have the money." She heard footsteps outside and hollers. "Fast" was all she could sign before she turned and raised one hand. It glowed a little and then there were more screams and shouts, some of alarm, some of pain. There was an explosion outside, and Morla quickly ran over to the cell and jerked on the barred door. When it didn't open, she looked at Lo'jar quizzically and he told her, "It's a jail!"

She seemed to understand this and ran back to the desk, where she rooted around for the keys. "I think one of the jailers had it," he called to her, holding onto the bars and rattling the door just for good measure. Rolling her eyes, she dashed outside, and just like she had asked, there they were.

The bracer on her arm vibrated a little with each movement of the two great demons. They were waves of destruction, obliterating anything that might catch fire and looking like they were swallowing their opponents whole. An orc tried to turn away from the battle, most dishonorably, Morla thought; the enormous flaming being simply ran through him and after it had passed, there were only charred bones.

She had a riotous feeling of victory when she found the corpses of the jailers and rummaged through them, picking out the key when she found it in a pocket. Before any of the panicked Grom'gol guards or visitors could see her, Morla went back through the wood door and handed Lo'jar the key.

Once they were outside, Lo'jar was struck anew. He hadn't the faintest before; now, the creatures ran amok, boiling water in the open jar beside the door merely with their presence. "Can't you call them off now?" he said, very quietly into Morla's ear as they stood, without moving. She watched for a moment longer and the half-troll saw in her faintly rosy face that she admired her work, and was loathe ending it. When he didn't remove his head, and breathed deeply into her ear, the girl sighed and the demons turned, bowed, and disappeared.

Morla gave him an indignant look and signed quickly, "We'll go. Up that ladder, over top. Go." She waved her hand and pointed. After a brief moment of silence he went, turning his back completely to flee up over the fence. Making sure no one was following, she put on her hood and went after him.

--

Lo'jar licked his lips of any debris and put down the can. It was some sort of meat soup, but he couldn't taste it. As always Morla was quiet, but even the half-troll hadn't exercised his natural talkativeness.

"I got you out, didn't I?" she said with her fingers, hardly moving them enough for him to make out the words. He almost thought she said, "cheese," but knew that couldn't be right. He could only nod his head and keep his eyes down on the empty can.

He didn't know quite what to say. She had gotten him free, but killed dozens of his kinsmen in the process. It was a massacre. He hadn't an idea of the repercussions of her actions.

They didn't exchange words again and eventually, Morla put out the fire by stomping on it, and then lay down on the thin roll-out pad she put down on the rough jungle floor. Lo'jar only had a bit of grass under his head; he had no trouble being comfortable in the wild, and he was asleep quickly.

There, he had a dream. Rather, a nightmare: a thin troll woman stood on the edge of a cliff, and Lo'jar went towards her. Her ears were longer than most trolls' were, and she had very fine hips and thin legs. Her hair was of an unusual color, as well, and he was surprised at how vivid the light on her appeared. When he came closer, however, she turned to him and he saw it was a human woman. She had brown hair and dark eyes, and the same creamy, yet bronze-colored skin as his girl. His girl. Mostly Clef's girl, but a little his. The woman held up a little black stone and he recognized it. The woman's mouth opened and after a moment Lo'jar realized she was talking, but he couldn't hear her: her voice was only a faint, strange whisper. She dropped the stone and began to stomp on it, so it was buried in the sand, and then she walked right off the cliff.

The half-troll awoke, breathing more rapidly than he remembered doing in the dream. He also felt something on his throat, but it was soft and didn't alarm him. When he looked down, he saw that Morla had curled up to him and was softly stroking his collar.

"You were calling something in your sleep that I couldn't understand," she signed to him without looking up. There was a faint warm feeling in his belly, and he wanted to touch her hair, which he knew would be so soft, and stroke her unblemished skin. She didn't say anything else, and lightly Lo'jar put his hand on her shoulder. He took the top of her shirt and drew it down low enough that he could see the scar there.

"I think it's best that we go different ways in the morning," he said then. Morla only nodded and got up, readjusting her shirt. Her face was turned away and she kicked her pad so it was a few more feet away. There, she laid down once more, her back to him. When Lo'jar fell asleep, he slept deeply and without dreams.

--

Lo'jar woke up and everything was gone, even the remains of the fire. He felt a sense of bitterness in the breeze that blew through the heavy trees, and he tried to forget the previous day when he went back to Grom'gol. He couldn't imagine what would happen to him there, but nothing did. The zeppelin tower was still functional and he went home—wherever that was.

Morla fixed her disguise and walked into the camp. They knew what she was there for immediately and it wasn't too much of an issue that she couldn't speak, though the captain there admitted that he didn't know why they would enlist a mute to begin with. She only shrugged her shoulders. "You look strong enough," he said. "Hidden power, I guess." She would have laughed at the irony if she could, but Lo'jar's words weighed her down too much. She only smiled weakly and nodded her head.

She worked at the camp for two days, and that was enough. Many of the men there had come down with a sickness they called "jungle fever," and she managed to relay that she was returning to her original outpost for fear of being infected. They didn't much blame her, and she said she would try to send another recruit if she could. By her knowledge, the original recruit had been murdered coming out of Darkshire and the undead rogue who had killed him took his badge, his note, and hid his body. Both objects had reached Zamah and Morla had used them as her proof when she arrived.

"We know that Kurzen's men have a cure for this," the captain told her. "We are sending two men right now to try to get them back, but they are unreliable adventurers and won't be arriving for a week. We just hope this little illness doesn't turn deadly by then." Morla only nodded her head.

It was simply perfect. Zamah would be pleased. Morla didn't care.


	9. Chapter 9

_So because this is a much more questionable chapter, it has been edited and thus this version of it is far poopier than the one you can see here: www. adultfanfiction. net/ aff/ story. php?no544208949 (subtract the spaces). If that doesn't work, you can access my author profile on that site through my profile here under "homepage." You're missing a lot if you're prude, so go read it._

**The Traitor**

**Chapter Nine**

Morla looked over another one of the papers she had been given that day. They were lists of demand: the shop wanted three of this kind of potion, a dozen of another, all before next week.

She earned her keep in the Valley of Wisdom, no one would deny that. She worked by day under lock and key in the Cleft of Shadow, where a strict orc shaman kept watch over her. She lived in a large room at the end of a long, dark hall in Thrall's Castle, as she called it. Clef lived there with her, drawing away from her more day by day. It had been six months since arriving and Morla had lost track of the days.

What kept the human from losing her mind, wrapped up and hidden away, was the progress she made. She was sinking deeper into Thrall's politics and he didn't know it. She went on extended trips now, building a reputation for herself among the Alliance with a persona she had concretely established. She listened in corners and sought audiences with the right people, finding out the most fragile secrets she could.

There had been a backlash by the Horde for the attack on Grom'gol. It was believed that a raid had attacked the camp, obliterating it; war escalated in the region of Stranglethorn, Westfall and Duskwood, and there had been numerous and well-publicized casualties.

But Morla had bigger fish. She had an assistant, an undead man who was mostly skeleton with very little flesh attached. While Thrall employed her for his own interests, and often left her alone for weeks at a time when there were no specific errands that he could think of for her to run, Morla was conducting her own experiments. Her powers were no longer nurtured and so her mind began to stretch instead. With her irritable assistant in hand, she reached into the past of the scourge and began to look there for a way out of her prison.

There were two days that highlighted her stay in Orgrimmar.

Zamah came, late one afternoon. She sat down with the girl and ushered out Sharp, her helper. He sniffed haughtily and took the things he had begun work on into the next room, and closed the door behind him.

"I researched this Achsbor, for lack of anything better to do," the undead woman told her old pupil. "There is much light to be shed, and I feel that it is a light I could share with you—and only you. Do not repeat to anyone what I tell you here." Zamah looked at Morla intently, and the girl nodded.

"Achsbor defected from her village and the orcish forces when she was only a teenager. She went inexplicably to the glades, where she worked closely with undead authorities. She forged a rare alliance with them and the only real records I have of her are comments on her deeds and her revered status among the scourge. I can posture a number of things from this:

"Using a spider with poison of Dreadfall was intentional on both her part and those she worked for. Whether or not the poison was engineered to affect only humans or anyone living is unclear, and this is something I would like to know more about, as a member of the outreach to other races of the Horde." She cleared her throat, and Morla knew immediately what she would ask. She sighed and leaned back in her chair, looking at Zamah expectantly. The undead woman cleared her throat. "I'm going to buy some harvested herb and I want you to test it. I don't care or want to know how you do it; just get the most accurate results you can and deliver them to me. This is important information, and I want all of the proceedings to be kept a secret until we can find out what they mean."

Morla nodded her head, nearly bored with the apothecary, and waved her hand. "It will be done," she signed, and Zamah left.

The other day was a week later, after the potion had been delivered and hidden away, and Morla was left to consider how she would go about carrying out the request. Her boring existence changed around pleasantly.

Morla liked to sit outside for an hour every day. She left her assistant in the workshop, and if anyone asked for her—unlikely, unless by Gothor, the shaman that looked over her—he made up an excuse.

During this hour she put her hood on and tucked away her hands. She sat on a little bench off the main road and watched the people streaming by, some on mounts, others walking, all in a hurry. They were armored and carried things with them; some were adventurers, other traders, the rest craftsmen. There was always an event in Orgrimmar, and one could tell what it was by the crowd that it drew.

That day it was less busy than Morla expected, and she took pleasure in being able to examine everyone that went by. Druids intrigued her with their cat forms, and the pets the hunters took around with them distracted her. They were incredibly varied; some had wolves, others bears, most had cats, and raptors, boars, and a bat or two were sprinkled in-between.

When she saw him, she wasn't sure what to do. She could stand up and go over to him, and see how he would react, or she could spare herself the humiliation and remain hidden, and wait for him to leave his resting spot by the mailbox before returning to the shop. He clearly hadn't wanted to see her again, and if possible, Morla would oblige him. But a part of her tugged and tugged and finally she stood up, trying her best to be inconspicuous, and went over to stand beside him.

An orc bumped her, but she ignored it and pretended to be checking for mail. She inched closer to the half-troll, who was repairing a belt buckle. Once she summoned the courage she lightly grasped his arm in her hand and pressed into it her unique sign for, "Hello." Immediately he froze, and Morla was both pleased that it had worked, and frightened that he would do something to expose her.

Instead, he leaned down and whispered, "What are you doing here?" His voice was more worried than it was angry.

"I live here," she signed as discreetly as she could, not wanting to show her human hands. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, Lo'jar grabbed her by the shoulder and they went for a short walk, up into the tunnel that led to the Cleft of Shadow, and he pulled her into a dark corner where no one could see them from the main thoroughfare.

Morla was prepared for a verbal assault: do you know what you did? How much trouble you should be in? How could you do such a thing? Are you crazy? Didn't I say I didn't want to see you?

Instead, he pulled down her hood and pushed some of her hair back with a gentle finger. His eyes, reddish mostly but with a bit of a glow to them, looked sad and a little hungry. "Why are you in this place?"

"I work for Thrall," she signed. He had trouble making them out in the dark, but when he took her hand in his, he could feel the signs against his palm and then could understand them. He only nodded his head.

"You look different," he said. "Older," he said, voice dropping to just above a whisper, "but forlorn." And then she couldn't stand it. She grasped Lo'jar's vest in her hands and then was flush against him, hugging him like a great big teddy bear. She didn't cry, he knew, but she shook a little and when he hugged her back, she almost lost her balance and he used his chest to hold her up.

"Let's go somewhere to sit down. Where do you live?"

"Up there... I have to say I'm going, to my assistant," she signed and then, attempting to regain her dignity, she stood back and put her hood over her head. She walked out into the street and crossed it, the half-troll following closely. They went down the short spiral and into the dark court. Her shop was through a bigger retail front; inside, Lo'jar's eyes had to adjust to the dim light.

"I'm leaving for the day. Tell Gothor he can just suck it up. I haven't missed a day since being here," she signed. Sharp just rolled his eyes.

"Aye," he replied sarcastically, and then saw the troll lurking at the doorway. His eyes bulged then, and he looked with panic between them until he realized that Lo'jar stared at absolutely nothing but the human girl getting her things together. He wondered if he should report this to Gothor, but then realized he didn't quite care what she did or who saw her. His job was being done and that was all he had to do. Let the girl have her fun, he thought, and waved Morla off with his hand. "I'll deal with that stuff later. Just get out of here, you're distracting me," he told her gruffly, and she listened. Sharp often told her what to do, rather than the other way around. It worked for them.

After ten minutes they were in Morla and Clef's room, which was enormous and mostly empty. It had been surprisingly easy to get in without being questioned by anyone, for the guards knew Morla and figured she had just picked up a guest for the afternoon. It was the truth, besides the fact they thought she was an undead priestess being protected by the chief for one political reason or another.

In the room Morla threw off the heavy cloak and took a deep breath, looking at her old friend. Those words seemed strange to her and when Lo'jar finally glanced up at her, standing awkwardly at the door after closing it, she knew that he wouldn't ever be an old friend; he was the friend.

"I didn't expect to see you now," the troll began finally, voice very low and with a surprising degree of seriousness. The tone would have been threatening if she didn't know him better. "I would have had something prepared, you know, to tell you. But I'll have to wing it."

"You don't have to say anything," Morla signed to him. She went across the wide room and past the two beds to a small kitchen-like area. There she poured water from a metal jug that had been in a bucket full of ice, and poured two small clay cups full. She came back and gave one to the half-troll, and quickly drank the other.

Lo'jar held the cup and looked around, hoping to stall as long as possible so he could come up with something to tell her; something to make up for what he often thought of as spitting right in her face. She had risked life and limb to save him, and to thank her, he quite effectively severed all ties between them—at least, that was what it seemed to him. He was agonizing over whether to look up at her or not when he noticed the enormous red tapestry hanging from the wall behind the beds.

"It was a present," she signed. "Clef wanted something to make the room look ours." When Lo'jar looked closer, he saw there were totem patterns along both sides of the tapestry. Inside were shapes mimicking the skeleton of a tauren. She was a little tauren girl, he knew. With no amount of coaxing would she ever give that up. He saw the pelt on the bed and she smiled. "Also a present. Pretty, isn't it? Look at the head." The half-troll obeyed and saw the jewels in the eyes, and petted the fur. It was quite the item—someone would pay good money for it. The hide was well-kept and the fur was flawless, as if it had been removed from the animal that same day. Morla smiled proudly and he couldn't help but smile back.

There was nothing awkward about this girl, he thought strangely. She was comfortable in any situation, and if she wasn't, she didn't show it. He admired her for that. Her confidence rubbed off on those around her—it was a rare talent. The butterflies living rather painfully in his belly melted away when she looked at him, her face warm and her full lips smiling. She gestured to a chair at the small wood table nearby, and they sat down there.

Someone who knew them and was watching the interaction may have found the irony humorous: both were nervous and afraid of the other, yet displayed such a good outward appearance of confidence that they each thought they were alone. There was a silence as they sat, staring at the wall; it wasn't awkward, but it wasn't comfortable, either. Then, at the same moment, they turned to each other and began to talk.

"I didn't want to upset you," Morla signed. In truth, she just hadn't considered that he might not approve of her actions.

"I didn't mean what I said," Lo'jar replied. "I want to be around you. I don't know what came over me."

They were both quiet then, and carefully the girl looked up at her friend. When he smiled, she couldn't help but do the same, and though they knew there were still issues there, it was water under the bridge.

--

Clef returned late that evening. He was helping at a blacksmithing shop, gathering materials and on the side learning to make his own armor. His project that week was a pair of very nice chain pants. Usually he visited the warrior trainer and practiced with other pupils, but today he had been too absorbed in the process of designing each little metal ring that he hadn't found the time to go.

He went into the house-like room he and Morla shared, and stopped dead in the doorway. Lo'jar and Morla were sitting on the bed, playing gambling games with the little wooden pieces they kept in the drawer. They were betting mere pieces of copper, and when the door opened, they both looked up.

"Ah, Clef, how are you?" the half-troll called, getting up to his feet and walking over. They shook hands, and Clef recovered from his surprise.

"Wha-what are you d-doing here?" he asked.

"This girl found me, by chance," Lo'jar said. "How are you? How is life in the big city?"

Clef shrugged his shoulders and went over to his side of the room, where he deposited his enormous bag of things and sat down on the bed. "G-good," the tauren replied. "Hard for h-her, but still all right." He glanced up and saw that both Lo'jar and Morla were watching him as he took food from his bag and walked over to the kitchen area to put it away. He cleared his throat.

"I think I'll go out t-tonight," he said then. "I... I'll be gone for a day. I am going on a m-m-mining trip."

The tauren felt as if he was intruding on something here, and he didn't imagine the half-troll would be gone anytime soon. He figured he had a valid excuse, and so he would leave. It was a spur of the moment thought, but he wasn't up for being the third wheel. He would give them time to themselves and then, when they were sick of each other, the troll would leave and things would be normal.

He almost laughed at how well he knew his girl.

He quickly set to packing and neither Lo'jar or Morla said anything, until the girl got his attention by tossing one of the pieces and hitting him in the nose. "What?"

She signed to him, "Could you tell Gothor I'm sick?"

Clef hadn't quite expected it, but it didn't surprise him. He nodded his head and asked, "When will you be back?"

"The day after tomorrow," she replied. He finished assembling the things he would need to travel and slung his bag back over his shoulder, hefting its weight easily. Without waiting another moment he took his pick off the table and strapped it to his belt. Satisfied, he nodded his head at the two.

"G-good seeing you a-a-again," he managed, and Lo'jar grinned.

"You too."

Once Clef left, they went back to their game like nothing had happened.

"Hey!" Lo'jar exclaimed, looking over his pieces. "You took one while I wasn't looking!" Morla made the face one would while whistling, and she rubbed her ear.

"You can't prove it," she signed back, sticking out her tongue.

"Aren't you slimy," Lo'jar said, snatching one of her pieces and returning it to his arsenal.

Morla gasped and attempted to take it back, but he blocked her by pushing her arm back with his much bigger hand. He guffawed loudly, until she wiggled past him and reached for the piece once more. In his attempt to prevent her, his weight shifted forward and, only resting on the cushiony bed, he lost his balance. The pieces went flying as the half-troll tipped precariously forward, and their wide eyes locked just before he fell on top of her.

They were very silent, each trying not to breathe. Carefully Lo'jar raised himself up on his hands, moving to get up, when he felt soft hands on his face.

Morla lightly touched his skin, marveling at the smoothness of it on his cheeks. She moved down and ran her fingers along his white tusks, which angled forward and away from his lips, and curved upward into fine points. She traced a tusk with one hand and then reached forward with her other, touching the tops of his cheeks and rubbing lightly. The makeup flaked off in little wisps of powdery blue, falling to the bed. She repeated the motion all around his eyes, putting effort into avoiding direct eye contact, until the silvery, flowing marks she found so beautiful were fully exposed.

"Is this why they imprisoned you?" she signed, and he very slowly and gently nodded his head. Her brown eyes took on a softer, sadder look, and she took his other tusk with her free hand, finally looking directly at him.

Lo'jar then touched her hair, running his fingers through it and then cupping her chin in his palm. Neither moved, and neither dared to look away. Then, raising both arms up from under him, the half-troll took her small face in his hands and murmured, "I'm sorry about what I said that day."

Morla only shook her head and, pulling lightly on his tusks, drew his head closer to hers. When their lips touched it was like a spark; ignited, Lo'jar wrapped his arms around her and pulled her up with him, so she sat on his lap, and the light touch became a rough kiss.

Morla had never accessed this side of herself, or even looked at it. It was a distant thing that she knew a little of, but never looked for in her own mind. Now it sprung forward, taking control of the little eighteen-year-old girl and planting in her the seeds of ability. Her hands released his tusks and grasped his shoulders instead, and her feet unwound from a kneeling position to pressing on either side of Lo'jar's hips.

In turn, he felt every soft curve of the little warlock as he pressed her body against his, and his consciousness became a writhing barrel of emotions and feelings. Tasting her was like a fine wine that quenched a thirst he hadn't known existed; he knew he wanted more, and more. His blood heated in his veins and he felt it warm his skin and bones.

Lo'jar parted their lips then and with one hand he tilted her head to the side, taking her neck with soft kisses. She breathed hard, never emitting a sound, but shaking and gasping beneath him as he moved lower. He hated admitting to himself that he was just as much of a novice as she, and so he slowed down and, realizing his weakness, leaned away for a moment to regain his breath. Just when he considered stepping back and leaving it as it was, he was pushed quite easily onto his back.

The girl cleared her hair out of her eyes and over her shoulder as she straddled him. Morla felt the same heat in her that she felt while fighting, and the feeling of moving towards victory took her over. The instinct that lingered beneath her consciousness rose up like a dragon, smoking and flaming until she was overcome with it. She couldn't figure mentally how he drew her in like he did, but she abandoned thinking about it; simple as she was, she accepted the part of her that wanted him and let it rule. Beneath the surface there had always been a general feeling towards the half-troll; but, like a machine, once a new context was created for her, the emotion became detailed and specific. Beyond friendship she wanted something, and it was now presented to her like a gleaming jewel. She would reach out and take it, without hesitation, and without regret. It was the only way she could live, she knew.

Lo'jar wasn't as simple. He feared what he imagined his parents must have feared, venturing into terrain that was so completely taboo. But he knew: his very existence was taboo. Why not live the way he pleased? Fueled by this, he grasped her hips and readily accepted her when she leaned down to kiss him once more. Though a little voice feared taking her places she wouldn't go did she know what she was getting into, the rest of him squashed it. When they parted again and Lo'jar flipped them, so he pinned her beneath his far superior weight, he saw immediately that she cared little for what might happen to her; like himself, she was ready to go blind into whatever he offered her. He took her in another rough kiss and it all began.

--

Morla awoke by a strange pain beginning in her thighs and rippling up through her until it disappeared at her collar. Curious, she opened her eyes, and smiled when she saw Lo'jar spread-eagle on the bed, one arm tightly wrapped around her, the other thrown across the pillow; his tongue hung out a little, and his white teeth glistened in the morning sun. Carefully removing herself from his grip, she crawled out of bed and set about removing the sheets on her own bed and taking a quick shower.

Lo'jar stuttered awake like an old engine. The bed was cold and he immediately missed the soft warmness that had been beside him all night. There were the sounds of someone bustling about, and when he got up, he saw Morla cutting bread and fruit beside the meat cooking in a pan. She was all naked beside the white apron she wore, and the half-troll was immediately turned on in a way he never imagined.

He got out of bed and quietly put on his clothes so that she wouldn't notice him. He went over to the kitchen and leaned against the wall until she noticed him, when she smiled and signed, "Almost ready." Then she pointed to one of the chairs at the table and he obeyed her command, taking a seat at the table just as she put the food on plates and brought them over.

"I like the outfit," he told her over a cup of melon juice, and she laughed silently.

"I thought you might," she replied. Lo'jar noticed she walked with a bit of a limp, but he tried to ignore it. As they ate, he leaned over and took a big sniff. She gave him a quizzical look. "You smell great." She could only nod and shrug her shoulders. He laughed and went back to his food.

By noon, she was dressed normally to go out and they took to the city. Clef would be back later that day, so Lo'jar wanted to make the best of the time they had. He had a lingering emotion of guilt and raised a dollar amount in his head of what it would take to make it up to her.

"Do you like these pants?" he asked her, showing the extremely fancy, black cloth pants, complete with gold buttons down each side. A thick, black belt came with them, and the buckle was faintly glowing. Morla took them and felt the soft fabric, smiling. "Go try them on."

She went into one of the rather unusually high-class dressing rooms—it was the best shop in Orgrimmar. Most didn't even label the items, leaving them open to bargaining; this shop, however, sold only items worth over two gold pieces. She put on the pants and the fabric was blissful. There came a knock on the door and she heard Lo'jar ask, "Can I see them?" She tapped the door once and he opened it, making sure no one could see her from outside, and slipped inside.

He cooed at the way the drawers cupped her rather round rear end, and gave a nod of approval. "I'll buy them for you," he said affirmatively, and when she lifted her hands to object, he shook his head. "I'm rich now. Don't worry about it." Though he lied through his teeth, he had managed to scrape together what the price tag asked. The wide smile on Morla's face was enough, and he lightly tapped her lips with one finger before going out to pay.

Morla wore the pants home, though she was forced to hide them beneath her overlarge cloak. They stopped to eat at a seedy shop and she paid for the rather amazing roast beast they shared between them. It was an easy task; she was given an allowance by the shop, and because she had little to spend it on now that she used a single disguise, she had plenty saved up to splurge. And splurge, she would. At the table, she looked up at Lo'jar chewing mightily on a drumstick and she knew that she wanted to keep him with her as long as she could. He had always been special to her, but they had connected—she felt it deep in her bones. When he looked up at her, for she had been staring, she signed, "Stay here, won't you?"

He blinked, then nervously looked down at his lap. "I don't... I don't know how long I can," he said then. "I mean, there's nothing really to do here."

Morla nodded her head and smiled. "It was a suggestion." With that, she seemed to completely forget the matter, while Lo'jar could think of nothing else the rest of the meal, and thus remained silent.

They had cared for the bedding on both beds reasonably, and Lo'jar surmised it would be better if he stayed at the inn that night. Morla had no opinion on the matter and when Clef returned later, looking suspiciously at both of them, they swayed his attention and Lo'jar left in the late evening.

Lying in her bed, blankets pulled up around her head and holding her lion pelt in her arms like a stuffed toy, she couldn't think of anything. There was a fuzz of nothing, swirling like a little grey cloud. Below the surface of her she hoped that nothing bad would happen to her. This was always the general emotion of sentient beings, but she did not dream of happiness—she never would, living in this miserable city, always alone, always hidden. Instead, she wished that she wouldn't die in the night or be killed on her next mission. These were fears she had never before had, and she knew that from that moment, the moment of their birth, she would never be rid of them. Her existence suddenly became important to her, and from then on, though she didn't know it, she would be a changed creature.


	10. Chapter 10

_If it sounds breaky in a scene in the middle it's because I don't know what is all right for and what isn't (no graphic stuff, but a little bit of really suggestive language) so I just deleted a paragraph. I really suggest just reading this on link you can find in my profile. Anyway. Thanks. Also I was feeling impatient and didn't edit this very thoroughly so if you find mistakes...oh well. I'll do a better job next time when I'm less impatient to get working on the next chapter._

**The Traitor**

**Chapter Ten**

Lo'jar was dreaming again; but somehow, strangely, he knew. This wasn't real, a part of him said. This is a figment of your imagination. He could tell because life wasn't this way. The colors weren't as vivid; his movements came to him without effort and without feeling; the only part of him that was there was his mind. The other people in his dream had faces, blurred a little, but he didn't recognize any of them. They weren't strangers, but yet they were.

And then, in the midst of the surreality, she was there. Her colors were more neutral, less vivid; her eyes shone brightly and when he looked into them, he saw they were really hers. She reached out, touched his face, and said, "Come outside. Let me in."

Lo'jar awoke suddenly, sweating. He was in a very cheap room in the inn, and the bed was small, even for him—a troll on the small side. The image of Morla was still fresh and, purely out of curiosity, he got up.

He tip-toed down the hall, for reasons he couldn't quite explain; it was the middle of the night, but he cared little who he awoke, or if anyone knew he himself was awake. Had the dream been a prediction of some kind? She had seemed so intrusive there, like she didn't belong. It was strange to him, but never one to ignore tricks of the mind, he padded down the hall in his bare feet and was surprised to see the bar still open. It was already two, but a pair of orcs were still there, drunk and laughing merrily. They clinked their great jugs together and the bartender rolled his eyes.

Lo'jar went by them, trying to look as non-chalant as he could wearing nothing but a pair of grey pants. One of the orcs watched him for a moment as he went outside, but the other orc easily distracted him.

He sighed a sigh of relief when he went out onto the front step of the inn and saw nobody there. He hadn't seen Morla in two days, and he didn't expect to see her now. He made a plan to visit her workshop behind the store tomorrow. He had been working the auction house, and thus hadn't had time; a pair of bracers that he had made himself had sold for over one gold piece, and so he was certain to be switching rooms soon. The half-troll didn't know how long he was going to stay. He wanted to be with her, but there was no real way that he could see: Clef would never allow it—hell, society never would. There was nothing for him in this city. Koya had gone home to visit her father, who was sick, and Lo'jar wanted to join her. Banik and Deweyl were like surrogate parents to him.

Lo'jar felt a shiver run from his neck down his spine, and all of the little hairs on his body stood up like they had been electrocuted. The air became very cold and he knew that someone was there.

"Morla?" he called as quietly as he could. "Are you here?" He heard a sound to the left and he quickly turned, walking toward the small indent between the inn and the building adjoining it. There was a scuffling and when he went over to look, walking cautiously and keeping his eyes as sharp as he could, he saw a figure huddled in the small crevice. Suddenly whatever the creature was stopped moving, and then came a familiar steady breathing. Seeing that it wasn't about to move anytime soon, Lo'jar picked his way across the wood it must have tripped on to make a sound, and peered closer.

He knew the cloak immediately and drew up the hood. Morla was sound asleep, crouched in an uncomfortable-looking position. When he touched her face with a finger she reacted only by exhaling and shifting a little. "Come on, little one. What are you doing here?" She seemed too deeply gone to awake by mere prodding. Sighing, Lo'jar covered her face once more and lifted her up, wondering how on earth she had ended up there, and why.

The half-troll took the girl inside, doing his best to not attract attention, and didn't spare a glance at either of the two orcs watching him. He went up the stairs and kicked open his door; he had left it slightly ajar. Inside, he went to his bed and dropped her a little unceremoniously there. He breathed deeply for a few moments, and then went to get a drink of water. When he returned she was in exactly the same position he had left her in, and he sat down beside her to think.

Had she called him outside? Why had she appeared? He surmised that she must have been sleepwalking, somehow, though he couldn't imagine for what reason. When he looked back down at her, and removed her cloak, he furrowed his brow.

Her throat was glowing. A red light emanated from it, circling her neck like a fiery collar. When he touched her skin it was far warmer than it should be, and he had to take his hand away for fear of being burned. "Wake up," he told her then, stroking her hair. She breathed out but failed to open her eyes. "Come on, wake up." Her eyelids fluttered. He thought he was making progress, when suddenly the aura spread and the very air around him became warm. Lo'jar jumped back and watched with horror as she began to convulse, her hands clenching and unclenching, each finger trembling on its own. Her mouth opened but her eyes still did not; the half-troll watched her, but couldn't imagine what he should do.

He reached forward to touch her again, but the heat radiating off of her prevented him from coming too close. "Oh, baby, wake up. Wake up." Something was happening to her, and very slowly the heat began to rise up and off of her. He began to faintly make out the red glow taking on the shape of her body, and when it pulled away from her paling skin, he knew.

"Morla!" Lo'jar reached forward and went through the silhouette. It burned his skin, but he grasped both sides of her face. "Oh girl, wake up! Wake up now!"

There was a pulse through his body that made his heart stop for just a millisecond; everything came to a halt, and he was reminded of the time he had seen her summon her demons on the beach. Her eyes opened and they glowed red. She stared at him and her mouth moved. Her voice came to him again, like it had that time: "He's trying to take me," she whispered.

Lo'jar grabbed her up into his arms and held her to him, his very skin singing. Time had resumed and he felt her skin sparking beneath his; her body shook once, and then twice, and she stopped moving. The burning sensation dissipated and, not wanting to look at her, Lo'jar held the girl and rocked her back and forth. He had no idea what had happened, but she was still like a doll in his arms. "Oh baby, wake up. Wake up," he murmured. Something had been trying to steal her.

Someone was trying to take her from him.

Taking a deep breath, he drew her away from him and her mouth hung open loosely. He laid her down on the bed and felt her neck for a pulse; he had to probe for it, worried for a moment that there wouldn't be one at all, but eventually he found it. Her heart beat very faintly, slowly, and with a little coaxing she looked up at him.

"What happened?" the half-troll demanded suddenly, and Morla's eyes widened. Her face became confused and she sat up, then, looking around. She glanced at him and nervously with her hands she asked, "Where am I?"

Lo'jar sighed then and held her away from him, clasping her shoulders in his hands. She still sat on his lap, her legs together and bent at the knee. "You're at the inn. This is my room." He gestured around the small space. "You showed up at the front step."

She blinked at him and rubbed her arm, then looked away and at the floor. She signed, "I remember falling asleep." Her brows furrowed in concentration. She glanced back up. "I saw you. In my dream."

"I saw you, too." They locked eyes then and Morla shivered. She wore only a long, dark red slip, and goosebumps rose all over her arms. "I think you were sleepwalking."

She sat back so she was fully on the bed, and rolled her shoulders like they hurt. Lo'jar released his grip on her. "I remember that I saw you in a dream, and I was walking towards you... I can't remember why." She closed her eyes and thought about it, while the half-troll waited patiently. Eventually she began to sign again, "I was looking for you, because there was someone here. Someone was in my room, trying to take me away. Then I saw you and began to run. Now I'm here."

Lo'jar could only shake his head and lean forward, so he looked directly into her eyes; he ran his fingers through her hair, drawing it away from her face. His hand dropped so it cupped her cheek. "There is something going on," he said, and felt it best to talk more about it when he didn't feel quite so tired. "I'll take you home in the morning. Since you're here, you might as well get some sleep. We'll think about this more tomorrow."

Nodding her head, Morla silently flopped back on the bed like a child and spread out her arms, taking a deep breath. He rolled his eyes and got up, attempting to fix the blanket while she lay on top of it. "Come on, get up," he told her gruffly and she obeyed, smiling when she wiggled her feet and crawled into the bed. She was so playful and strong, though she didn't look it, Lo'jar thought. She was made like a doll, tall for her age and species, but still built small: a glass toy. He couldn't help thinking she was made of more elements than anything. There were all kinds of parts to her: pieces of a puzzle; he imagined his father, putting together one of his strange contraptions. "Hand me that wood piece," he'd say. "And those bolts." Lo'jar watched her curl up into a ball, almost careless, not thinking too much over the bizarre event that had just occurred: he could see these parts of her, mostly simple, held together with nails and screws, with one thing that he couldn't quite make out: a blurry thing, strange and mysterious; a part of her that even she didn't know.

His father had always told him, "For every hardship in your life, because of who you are, you'll have one gift. You are special, Loren. Every day you'll be able to see things that no one else can—this is the gift of your life. It's the only thing I can give you: the ability to see."

Lo'jar sat thinking for some time before he fell asleep, lying on top of the blankets. His arm circled her head protectively and one leg was flung over her. In the night Morla opened her eyes and rubbed his much larger hand with hers. When she went back to sleep she dreamed of her answer, but forgot it in the morning.

--

Clef was in panic mode. It wasn't anyone's panic, either—he roared and howled and threw blankets and tables and clay pots, throwing a fit until a guard summoned the courage to look in on him. He saw the destruction and closed the door quietly, so as not to alert the raging tauren to his presence, and went back to the main room to get help.

They had to sedate him, and when he was calm again the fog in his eyes cleared and Thrall was sitting before him. "What's come over you, tauren?" Clef raised his great head and his jaws clenched for a moment, the gold ring in his nose shining in the pale light of the throne room.

"M-m-missing." He stood up, stretching his immense thighs. "G-g-girl m-missing."

Immediately Thrall stood, his expression changing from irritation to a selfish kind of worry. "What do you mean by this?" he asked, voice husky.

Clef only shook his head and backed up, head bent, and then said, "W-w-was gone."

There was a silence as Thrall walked down off his large chair and walked a semi-circle around where Clef stood, unmoving. As he opened his mouth to ask another question, the great room's door opened and the annoyed chief yelled, "Stay out!"

The two figures in the entryway froze and one turned to leave, but Clef cried, "Morla!" She paused there and turned back, looking torn and panicked, while Lo'jar's ears lowered and he raised his hands defensively. Thrall followed the tauren's eyes and he let out a great sigh.

"Come in," he ordered, now calmer. He steeled himself to be gentle when the pathetic human stumbled in, closing one of the doors behind her, and came up to stand beside her tauren friend. The other remained behind her, but was momentarily ignored. Thrall waved his hand at them. "Look, there was no need—" he looked at Clef, "and so, I would like this incident to be forgotten." Then, he saw the odd-looking troll by the door and narrowed his eyes.

"And who might you be?"

Lo'jar jumped and raised his eyes to the chief. He had never been in the great orc's audience before, but had heard much about his strength and presence; all the rumors he had heard were true. Unable to resist, the half-troll kneeled on one knee before the great chief. "Lo'jar at your service," he replied, keeping his eyes on the floor.

"I see..." the orc gave him a suspicious look that he didn't see. "You may go. I don't want to see this from you again, Clef Stronghorn." The tauren nodded his head and gazed with a sour curiousness at his two friends. Morla stood by him, and Lo'jar rose from his crouched position and they hurried to leave the throne room.

Thrall looked at his yellowed nails and picked at one. He wondered how this strange troll knew his little secret weapon. He hadn't thought he needed to tell the girl not to associate with anyone, but perhaps he would. It was very unsafe for his campaign to have any possibility of his plan leak out before it came to fruition. Morale was not at its best, and it was important to be prepared. He sighed and dismissed the issue. It was probably just some fluke.

--

When they entered the room and Clef closed the door, there was a silence. The tauren looked at Morla and she immediately began to sign what she remembered.

"I sleep-walked to the inn," she told him. "I stayed there because it was so late." She shrugged her shoulders and Clef looked suspiciously at Lo'jar. The half-troll had always felt that they were friends, but now, the warrior looked simply angry. It was the kind of anger only Clef could muster, unadulterated and a pure kind of emotion. It may have been jealousy, or it may have been disgust; he didn't try to hide it, and he told Morla without looking at her, "Don't sh-sh-shirk your duties." Then he took up his bag and put it over his shoulder. He gave Lo'jar a dark, warning look, and then left.

Clef was slow, but he wasn't completely stupid. Though his mind couldn't fully fit Morla into a place—sister, friend, lover—he felt in his bones that something about it all was wrong, and it irritated him. He loved her, no matter what way, and he couldn't help thinking that the half-troll he had once trusted was going to mess everything up.

He snarled and felt his unruly hair. Morla hadn't braided it in a week. He went into the shop with his bag full of raw gold and a few pieces of mithril, and when his boss congratulated him, he said nothing and got to smelting.

--

She was certainly enjoying it this time, Lo'jar thought headily.

After the fact, they were there for some moments, before Morla jerked up, startled, and covered her mouth. "Work!" she signed quickly and leaped off the bed, naked as the day she was born, and quickly gathered her clothes up off the floor. Feeling far shyer, Lo'jar leaned forward and felt his face color when she looked at him. "You can stay here as long as you like. I'll let the guard know." He only nodded his head as she finished dressing and went to the kitchen to take a piece of bread, which she shoved in her mouth and began chewing as she opened the door to leave. She waved and darted outside.

Relaxing now that she was gone, the half-troll leaned back on the bed and absently stroked the lion pelt. Could he really leave, now? Now he had a moment to think, and the night returned to him rather roughly. He remembered her words: "He's trying to take me." Who was "he"? He pulled up the image in his mind of the silhouette, too real and detailed to be anything but a part of her. It had been trying to escape her body.

Was someone pulling it? What was it, exactly? Why didn't she remember? Lo'jar was full of questions, and there were no answers he could fathom. After some minutes he sighed at the futility of it and got himself up, gathered his clothes, and left the room. The guards nodded to him on his way out and only one of the three looked at him funny.

--

But it wouldn't be true to say that Morla didn't want to know—or that she didn't know.

She went through the motions of work and Sharp commented she was being more meticulous than usual. This was a bad thing, however, for the potion she completed had hardly the usual kick. When she leaned back in her chair and it tipped over, sending her head against the wall, Sharp leaned down and asked, "You all right, stupid human? You're a little out of it."

Morla only nodded and, squinting from the pain, got up. She set her chair back to its usual position and just signed, "I need some air."

When she went outside and sat by the front step, watching customers file in and out of the shop, she knew it was about time for her to go.

She went back in and casually asked, "Has my shipment come?" Sharp glanced at her.

"Which one?"

She thought for a moment and then signed, "From Thunder Bluff." The undead man went into the small off-closet and shuffled through papers and boxes crammed around the small desk that they had somehow fitted into the area. Eventually, he came back with a package less than a pound in weight.

"This is all I could find," he told her, then sat down and went back to removing the stems from the herbs she had gathered, putting the unharmed pieces into glass vials, which he then filled with a clear liquid. Morla split open the package and inside was a carefully sealed bag. She sniffed it and gagged; she set the bag on the far end of the desk.

"We'll have to prepare this," she signed. "Use the thickest gloves you have, and put on those masks." She gestured to the completely unused mouth guards hanging from the far wall. They were supposed to use them with many of the creations they procured, but Morla stuck out her tongue at regulations and often warnings didn't apply to Sharp. He looked at her oddly. "Trust me on this one."

Inside the bag, beside the leaves that they handled carefully, she found a small piece of paper. On it were written the instructions for creating the potion. They separated the dried, crumbly leaves into many small piles so they could make many different prototypes, in case they didn't do it right the first time.

"Just what are we working with?" Sharp asked after some hours of preparation. They had only managed to get the proper balance of chemicals and liquids in which to soak the leaves, and he was getting antsy. This was going to be a long project.

"I can't tell you that," she signed back, not looking up from her work. Sharp sighed. He had expected an answer like that. He knew it had something to do with the forsaken woman that had visited nearly two weeks before, but beyond that, he was clueless. But his job was to do what he was told and in this case, he would have to do just that.

They only had a little bit of herb left when Sharp dropped too much leaf into the chemical mixture and the whole thing exploded, cracking the glass of the vial and causing black smoke to burst from the top in a great mushroom cloud that filled the room. Morla coughed, due to her human lungs, and Sharp only waved his hands in front of his face to clear away the debris. Sharp had to admit that he had a pretty good boss; she didn't get angry at him for his mistake. She believed that anyone learned best from their own mistakes, and someone else pointing it out to them only aggravated the situation. Her assistant seemed to work well with this theory and so she went back to preparing the next vial of liquid compound while he lightly doused the leaves in oil and put them in a miniature strainer.

Finally they had prepared the potion, and when Morla looked out the window, the sun had long set. They laughed, then, and Morla capped the vial triumphantly. She gave Sharp a thumbs-up. "This is a confidential operation," she signed to him as they got their things together to leave. He had picked up her language quickly, but some signs still confused him. Then she would illustrate or just write out the word in Orcish. She wrote, "secret," and he nodded his head. "We're going to have to find some test subjects for this."

The forsaken man raised his eyebrows as they went out the front door. "I'll outline the plan in more detail tomorrow. Bring your best clothes." Sharp only nodded as they separated.

Morla had locked up the potion in the back room, so she thought about other things on her way home, if that's what one could call it.

She had woken up and there were ropes around her neck and wrists, and middle and feet. She wasn't going to tell Lo'jar the whole truth. It was something she felt for a time she had to keep inside of her, until she had managed it, and then maybe he could help her. The ropes had pulled on her and she squirmed and cried out, but there was only a voice calling her name, deep inside her. It was low and authoritative, and though she feared it, she couldn't help but want to go to him.

Still uncertain, Morla pulled back against her restraints, and then Lo'jar had appeared. She would go to him and so she did. She had told him most of the truth, she reasoned. Something the half-troll did severed the ropes and she fell back into herself, clutching onto her body as she rejoined it.

She remembered this all with the vivid detail of someone who could remember her dreams like they were life; who could picture shapes in her mind and feel the realness of them; who could sense her own life force inside of herself.

With a sigh she passed the guards and went into her room, barely registering Clef at the desk before she flopped down on the bed. "Where were you?" she heard the tauren say with a twinge of suspicion.

"I was working late on a special potion," she signed to him, face still pressed in the bed. "If this works out, I'll be taking a trip to the Undercity." Morla heard him make a distasteful noise, something that sounded like clicking his tongue, and she got up off the bed with a great deal of effort. She went to where he sat, the little wooden chair straining from the effort of holding him up, and saw that he was reading over recipes for new silver armors. She pulled up a chair behind him and began to carefully braid his hair. Under her ministrations he relaxed considerably.

After some moments, when she was near done with the braid, he turned around in the chair enough that he could glance at her. Morla gave him a curious look. "What is it?" She appeared confused. "What is it, between you and Lo'jar?"

The girl blushed very brightly then, unable to hold it back, and dropped the almost finished braid. The whole thing came undone, from the bottom up to the top, from the innate wildness of his hair. It sprung out and stuck up from the static electricity she had put in it.

She took a deep breath before replying, and the longer she waited, the darker Clef's expression became. Finally she lowered her eyes to the floor and signed, "There is something." This was enough for him—even without a voice, her meaning was clear. Clef got up from the chair with a wide movement, causing the desk to jerk and the chair to fall over, nearly startling Morla out of her own seat. He grit his teeth and stood with his face to the wall, watching it as if it would give him the answer he was looking for. Morla wished she could call out to her friend, but all she could do was sit and wait for the wrath of him to be unleashed.

Then, he stomped his foot, howling like a small child having a tantrum. He turned to her and roared, then stomped again; finally he shouted, "Why? Wa-wa-why him?" He shook his head back and forth and he reminded Morla of a horse, rearing and snorting in agitation. The tauren really could be quite diverse with his annoyances. When he only seemed to get worse, growling out things in Taurahe that even she couldn't understand, she carefully got to her feet and went over to him. She took one of his large fingers and held it with her whole hand and with her free one she signed, "Calm."

This seemed to have the desired effect and he stopped making a racket. He breathed hard and kept his eyes half-focused on her. "Calm." She raised his great hand to her cheek and held it there. "Don't be upset." The tauren managed to really look at her then. Morla smiled.

She took a step forward and Clef sighed when she hugged him and pressed her face into the soft, white fur of his chest. He patted her head and said, "H-h-he's just a mongrel. What do you s-s-see in him?"

"Don't say that," she chastised. "He's your friend, too." Clef couldn't deny this and so he didn't reply. Morla reached up and patted his soft nose. "You shouldn't get all riled up like that. I'm getting to be a big girl now. I can take care of myself."

These words distressed the tauren, but they hit far deeper than anything else she had said. That was true, he knew. He saw his place by her side disappearing rapidly; it worried him. She was going on missions by herself now, not needing his protection; soon, any purpose he had had would be usurped by the half-troll. He felt a pervasive sadness, and he hugged his girl. If Lo'jar wanted her, he would have to come and ask.

That night, they slept together like they had for so many years before, the human wrapped tightly up in the tauren's big arms, his much larger body curled protectively around her. When Clef woke the next morning and Morla was gone, he felt something had changed, in both of them, and deep inside himself.

He would never be the same again.

--

Sharp was staring incredulously at his boss. "You mean..." Morla nodded. "This is a lot more than I subscribed to when I got this job."

"Now you've got it, and so you're going to do what I tell you." She was pouring out the bloody-red liquid out from the larger vial into five smaller ones. Capping all of them, she put one into his hands and patted his fingers closed around it.

"You're going to have to do this for me because you have access to things that I don't here." She clenched her hands together and then set down the vials, putting on her cloak. "This is going to be complicated. I've gathered some supplies. There are three ways we can apply this stuff." She took out a pair of green leather braces and set them down on the table. Beside that was a metal can labeled with "Air of Sweetmold," and at the end of the table, Morla had laid a juicy-looking pork chop on a plate. Sharp looked utterly confused.

"The mixture can infect by contact with the skin, both direct and indirect," she signed, pointing to the bracers. She picked up the can and aimed it at Sharp, who raised his eyebrows and took a nervous step back. "It can also infect by being inhaled." She sprayed and the man covered his mouth, but only a breath of the sweet, moldy smell that orcs enjoyed came out. He glared at her and she grinned mischievously. "The last way is through direct digestion. They're all equally effective."

"What do you want me to do, then?"

--

Sharp sighed and looked around the auction house. He was putting the bracers up for sale; he had them wrapped up, "For sale," he told the auctioneer, who only shrugged and took the bagged items from him, only opening them up to make sure they were what he said they were. Then he sat back and watched.

She had picked an item that would be sold easily, and she had done it well; within an hour a troll rogue with tied up, ridiculous-looking hair bought the bracers outright—they had been on at an incredible price—and happily took them out of the bag and slipped them on his wrists before even leaving the building. Sharp appeared as casual as he could, exiting the auction house after the hyper-looking troll.

The undead followed his charge for nearly two blocks before he gave up. "If there is a result, it'll appear in the first five minutes," Morla had told him.

His next project was far more difficult. Sharp went into the bar and waited by the grill, pretending to sip on a drink. When he saw that the cook wasn't looking he took out his dropper and dribbled a little of the concoction onto the lamb kabob. He sighed when it was taken later by an undead woman. She sat for nearly half an hour after eating, talking with one of her companions, without having any apparent negative effects.

Sharp used the same method a few more times, with the same results in another troll and a tauren shaman. He sighed and decided to leave. There was little left for him to do there once it began to clear out in the middle of the day.

He wandered Orgrimmar, the spray can tucked into his side-pocket. He couldn't imagine what she was using to make the potion, or what she was trying to accomplish with it, but he knew whatever he was working with was deadly—possibly far more for Morla than for himself.

However, his opinions changed when he stood on a corner and waited. He held the can under his hand and when a pair of orcs, growling and laughing like brutes, he sprayed them when they weren't looking. How he wasn't noticed he didn't know, but he followed the pair boredly. He lost them around a corner and took a moment to pause so as not to appear too suspicious, before walking around.

One orc was face-down, the one that had been closest to Sharp when he sprayed them; the other was kneeling beside him, holding his head and moaning. A few passerbyers had stopped to watch, but most went on and none offered help. Eventually the second orc collapsed as well and eyes wide, Sharp turned and slinked away from the scene.

Morla looked up when her assistant came in, eyes wide, jaw open. His tongue was visible when his mouth was closed because he was missing most of his teeth on one side, and she saw this when he made fishlike bobbing with his lips. Eventually he managed out, "It worked."

Her brow furrowed. "That's not what I was looking for," she told him, and Sharp gave her a confused look. "That is bad."

"Only on the orcs."

She looked startled and then covered herself up. She took the potion that remained and dumped it away, and recycled the vials by crushing them and soaking them in acid. They disintegrated and she hid all of it away.


	11. Chapter 11

_As usual, visit my account to read the full version. This is awkward because of the cutting, naturally._

**The Traitor**

**Chapter Eleven**

He wanted to hear her, but not this way.

Clef had for some reason wanted Lo'jar to go with her to the Undercity instead of him. The half-troll knew they had been found out but his friend seemed undisturbed, and so he accepted the position. Clef had full employment benefits and was working to become an artisan blacksmith. He was given a room with the other shop workers behind the building in a separate establishment.

Lo'jar moved in to the castle. No one was sure what he was doing there, but they didn't dare ask. Once, one of the guards had stopped at her door on his way by, showing his curiosity a little more blatantly than the rest, and an imp had been sitting there trimming his nails. The creature made a rude gesture to him and when the guard didn't look about to go on, Alrash lit his tunic on fire.

The pair living there was left alone after that.

Morla found the life satisfactory; it didn't crunch her system or schedule, and the troll often practiced with her in the courtyard. They built heavy doors into the back of their room that led outside, and so rarely were others there—practically never—that late at night they sparred. Once Morla used her corruption on the half-troll, and he was haunted by dark dreams for two days afterward. He forbade her later from using it again, as effective as it might be.

Lo'jar really had nothing to do. He sat in the room sometimes and watched the sun rise and set; he had his cousin send him his father's blueprints, and he went over them during the days, trying to piece them together. They were strange contraptions, often with clear purposes but faulty thinking. Other days he went out and haggled, buying items at low prices and selling them high on the auction house. Most of the time when Morla needed him, he was a translator, mediating arguments between her boss and herself, making her orders to supply shops. He was her voice when they traveled among the Horde, and he waited for her patiently in base camps and towns when she went on her special missions. Often, she couldn't even tell him what she had to do there; she only asked that he wait. Sometimes he worried that she wouldn't return, but she always did.

When they went to the Undercity, Morla was walking along when something seemed to hit her like a ton of bricks. "Come!" she called, and curious, Lo'jar followed her to the jewelry shop in the middle of the great city of the undead. She went into the store and dug through her bag, pulling out a little dusty, faded, grimy white ticket.

"This item has been ready for some time," the clerk commented. "The master finished it before he left." He shuffled into the back of the store and a few minutes later, he came out with a box Morla found quite familiar. He set it down on the table and opened it for her to see.

There was a wide mithril necklace, elegant, and holding an immense ruby in a secure casing. The mithril cupped the jewel carefully, three spidery legs curved up and over to keep the precious stone from falling out. The chain was long and well-crafted, with no visible blemishes on the nearly imperceptibly small links. "Would you like to try it on?"

Too awed, Morla nodded her head and when the forsaken removed the jewel and went to put it on her, Lo'jar intercepted him and took it. Morla put it on herself beneath her hood. The man smiled, and before either of them could stop him, he pulled off her hood to get a look at the necklace around her neck.

He nodded his head. "Good." Morla looked at him, confused and afraid, reaching for her hood once more to cover herself; then she saw Lo'jar staring, his mouth wide enough to let in any bugs that might wander by. "Would you like a mirror?" the jeweler asked. When the girl didn't reply, he looked at Lo'jar.

"She would love one," the half-troll said smoothly. The undead man nodded and reached beneath the table, pulling out a little mirror. He handed it to Morla, who looked nearly frightened enough to panic and flee, and the undead smiled again.

This was not what she had expected to see. In the reflection was a rotting girl, her once-blond hair now dirty and uneven, pulled out in places. Her eyes were glowing a vibrant yellow and her skin was a hollow greenish color, mostly in-tact, with some missing around her eyes and mouth. She and Lo'jar stared at one another for a moment, and then he said, "It's great. Thank you so much." The jeweler nodded his head and went back to his work. Morla set the mirror down on the desk and, a little dazed, left the store.

"What is that necklace? Where did you get it?"

Morla swallowed. "The jewel was given to me... by a teacher. They were working on it for a very long time," she signed to him. Lo'jar looked at her, and then shuddered.

"No offense," he said, grinning, "But you look horrible." They laughed.

Morla covered her mouth. She looked up at Lo'jar, who stared back at her. "... Did you just laugh?"

She flexed her jaw and then furrowed her brow. "Nah," she signed.

"No, I very clearly heard you laugh just now," he pressed. Leaning down, he looked in her eyes and said, "Why didn't the undead man cross the road?" She shook her head. "Because he didn't have the guts!"

Morla laughed. She laughed, and when she heard herself laugh, she laughed even harder. She began to cry from laughing, or maybe just from being able to laugh, and soon she was laughing and sobbing all at once. Lo'jar, trying to keep from making a scene, took her by the arms and led her out of the way and into a little weapon shop. The owner barely looked at them.

The half-troll couldn't figure why he was comforting her. Eventually she stopped and took a few deep breaths, and then opened her mouth. She breathed out, "Ah." There was definite voice to it, and she gasped. Trying again, she spoke: "I can talk!" She stomped her foot, yelling out loud and most definitely getting the store manager's attention. He gave them both a look and Lo'jar held a finger to her lips.

"As great as this is," he said, "Maybe this isn't the place." She only nodded, grinning, and they went off hand-in-hand to the elevators.

They were to scout Tirisfal for the Dreadfall crops that Zamah had reported, and take account of anything unusual. Morla had informed the woman of the results of her test, and even she seemed to be surprised. "Targeting the orcs?" Morla nodded. Zamah looked momentarily puzzled, before she asked, "And you tested this on humans?" Again, the girl gave an affirmative. "And what was the reaction?"

"The man I tested was unaffected, mostly, though he did sweat a lot. Some hours later, though, he died." They exchanged looks. The apothecary tapped her foot pensively before she replied, "Then we can't be sure if this herb is really directed to the orcs or if it's just a coincidence. I want you to approach the Dreadfall fields any way you can and look for clues that might provide an explanation."

She hadn't known how she was going to do it; initially Morla had thought to send Sharp in her place after getting a general idea of the area, but with her new and unexpected disguise, she could walk in broad daylight and no one would suspect a thing.

It was a short walk, and once they got outside the ruins they ducked off the path and sat down among some trees. Morla was giggling, unable to control herself, and Lo'jar waited patiently for her to recover from the giddiness. Eventually she came to.

"Talk to me again," the half-troll commanded.

She hadn't even her mouth open all the way before sound tumbled out: "I-can't-believe-this-is-real!" she cried. Strange, he thought—it sounded much different than the sound he had heard that time on the beach, or in his dream. It sounded almost... mechanical.

"Slow down. Say something again."

She gave him a curious look, and then victoriously sat back and began to talk. "My name is Morla Stronghorn and I live in Orgrimmar, Durotar."

It was female—that was for sure; however, the voice definitely did not have the bell-like charm that he remembered. It had very little lilt to it, very little emphasis or emotion. It seemed monotone and uninspired, much unlike the voice he expected to hear from the excited girl.

"Take it off for a second." Furrowing her brows in confusion, Morla did as she was told and removed the necklace, in the cover of the trees. Her form reverted to that of her usual very much alive human body. She tried to speak again but this time, no sound came out. Curious, she looked to him for permission and when he nodded, she put the necklace back on. She took on the undead appearance and when she spoke, her voice came forth.

"Strange," she said. "I don't actually feel like I'm using my vocal chords. This seems just the same... except now there is sound to go along with my thoughts."

"It's magic," he determined strongly. He lifted it from her breast and rubbed over the jewel in his finger. When she spoke, it warmed and glowed a little; when she was silent, it appeared only as a plain ruby. "The jewel is filtering your thoughts into words. It hasn't given you your voice back, it's only allowed you a new one."

Though this seemed to bring down Morla for a moment, it was a short moment and quickly she stood up, stretching her arms. "A voice is a voice," she said confidently. "You don't know what it's like. This is the greatest thing to happen to me." She gave him an odd, somewhat hostile look and Lo'jar had never figured her for the insecure type, but her mood change took him for a short loop. However, he nodded his head. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to be her; that was true enough. He couldn't blame her for being excited, so the half-troll smiled and got to his feet, saying, "Shall we?"

He led her through the unfamiliar territory, having been around the glades once before. He had been sent by his mother for special leather batwings that could only be found on the bats that lived among the ruined old shacks of the forsaken.

As they traveled from village to village, asking about farmers and receiving only odd looks, for the undead never raised produce, they talked. "Could you speak before?" Lo'jar asked.

"I don't know," she replied. "Maybe when I was small. I don't remember much before coming to Bloodhoof." She told him of some of her life there, before the dwarves had come. Listening to her describe her brothers and sister, her people and her homeland, he knew she was just a tauren girl in a wrong body.

Outside of Brill, the pair stumbled across a small house. There was a barn attached, rotted away, and a skeletal horse stood silently outside with its thin, scraggly mane blowing in the wind. Behind the house were three fields and a brambly paddock, ignored for probably more than two decades. There didn't appear to be anyone in the house at that time, and so they carefully went around it to the tilled ground behind it. There, Morla saw what she had expected: short, greyish-green bushes, sickly-looking in nature; the leaves were long and distinctively ratty; from each thin branch hung a nest of tiny black leaves, crowded around a blood-colored berry.

"Here they are," she said, peering around. She didn't know who was growing them, and it didn't seem like the grower had been there recently—the herbs were untrimmed and growing out of control. When they came closer the undead horse glanced over at them, swished his tail, and went back to looking off into the distance.

Morla surveyed the area once more as a precaution before she stooped down. She took the fruit and bud off a single bush and held it up, putting the whole thing into a small bag. As she began looking at samples of the grass around the field, she heard a sound and both she and Lo'jar turned around. Two spiders, exactly like the one they had seen in Echo Islands, had come up to the far field and were pleasantly scrounging the herbs. "They don't eat bugs?" the half-troll asked. Morla shook her head.

"They have more of a refined taste than that." The two creatures devoured a whole plant before moving on, nibbling another and then ambling off back into the woods without noticing the visitors. This at least proved Zamah's theory about Achsbor; all Morla had left to do was to figure out if someone was trying to kill the orcs, and if so, how.

Sealing away her bag, Morla pointed off toward the woods. "Now we have to go find some wild ones, and then we can make a comparison."

--

They returned to Orgrimmar the next evening. They stayed a night in the Undercity and when they got into their room, Morla collapsed on the bed. "All right," Lo'jar said, standing in front of her and defiantly crossing his arms. "Take it off." She sat up, giving him a quizzical look. He pointed to the necklace, and gave her a distasteful look. Morla looked down at herself and laughed, holding up her greenish, dead hands, and waved them around. She obeyed and removed the necklace, her form changing smoothly from rotting forsaken to full-bodied human girl.

The half-troll smiled then and walked up beside the bed, leaning down to look at her, his nose only inches from hers. His grin was ferocious and playful, and Morla was pleased when he crouched lower and supported himself by putting both hands down on the bed to either side of her hips. She wouldn't be able to talk now, but because Lo'jar hadn't known any different until today, her silence didn't bother him. He kissed her lightly and pushed her down on the bed, and she giggled silently as he ravaged her neck and collar. He touched her all over, running his hands down her chest, cupping her breasts beneath her thin shirt, and rounding the curve of her hips. After a minute she pulled away from him and sat up, pulling off her shirt; she had to stand up, off the bed, to kick away her pants. She wore nothing underneath since they had been living together, and sometimes Lo'jar thought she was growing too much used to him.

These thoughts disappeared when she remained standing and with one hand she ushered him to stand, as well. She removed his shirt with his cooperation and, fully naked and comparing herself with his only partial nudity, she began to admire the well-defined muscles of his chest and stomach. She kneeled down to undo his pants and there she inspected him as well, earning a great dark blush. "H-hey," he managed, and then leaned down as well to pull her up to him. They stood there for a moment and watched one another, before the half-troll grinned and leaned down to kiss her.

--

Morla was quiet, her consciousness slowly fading away with the effort of loving and the long day she was leaving behind. Lo'jar smiled to himself when he saw she had closed her eyes, and not long after her breath evened.

He always felt a little guilty, like he was spoiling something untouched and innocent. Often times he remembered her face in Grom'gol, eyes blazing and hungry for blood, and wondered if the little girl he was slowly realizing he loved and that woman with burning hands were different people.

Lo'jar stood up and crossed the room, pulling on his pants awkwardly in the process, and went out onto the back porch. Strange, he thought, and looked up when a drop of water touched his face. It was raining.

He felt a coldness in his neck and assumed he was getting a chill, so he went back inside and closed the door firmly behind him. He got in bed, Morla's back to him, and pulled her against him to warm up; the cold didn't go away, but he fell asleep regardless.

--

Morla was huddled in her chair, reading a heavy book when Sharp came in. He looked at her and was confused for some moments, before she glanced up and he recognized who she was beneath the disguise. She smiled. "Do you like it?" she asked.

The assistant was too overcome with surprise to say anything for a moment, and then he replied, "Ah... it works." Then he saw the large silver necklace and the jewel drew his attention; he pointed to it and asked, "What is it?"

"A present."

"Enchanted, obviously." Morla nodded her head and rubbed the necklace, causing a bit of her greenish skin to be normal-hued for the time that she touched it; when she took her hand away, the disguise returned to normal.

Sharp sat down then and tried not to be fascinated with the changes in his boss, or ask her questions just to sample her newfound voice. Instead, he looked at the book she was reading and frowned. It was some written account of the history of the scourge, and she was fascinated by it. After he had been working for nearly an hour, she raised her head and asked him, "To kill off the humans, why not just... join forces?"

Innocently he replied, "With who?"

The girl gave him an irritated look. "Arthas. Why be divided? So much more could be accomplished." Sharp had a nervous look about him.

"It's a lot more complicated than that."

"But don't they want the humans dead, too?" He was quiet and then shrugged his shoulders, crouching defensively over the two vials he was mixing. Morla let out a sigh and put down the book, pushing it to the corner of the desk. "I have some different work for you to do today."

Sharp groaned but she silenced him by raising a finger. "We just have to make mixtures of these two samples." She took a bag up off the floor and set it out, removing two smaller bags from it. She unwrapped them and presented her assistant with the wild Dreadfall and the harvested one; there was a clear difference, with the farmed berry being a much darker color and the leaves around it also darker and smaller. The wild herb looked almost harmless, green and the berry looking ripe and almost delicious, though anyone familiar with the glades would know better than to eat it.

He gave her a curious look and she pointed to the wild herb. "Mix this into a potion like the one we made before; do you remember the ingredients?" The forsaken nodded. "Get your materials and if you have questions, ask them. I'll be mixing this one." She gathered up the foul-smelling item and tucked it back in the bag. Her assistant only nodded, curious about this new assignment, and they went to work.

--

Thrall was patronizing her. "You have him, bring him with you."

The girl gave him an exasperated look. "This is easy! I can do it on my own."

The orc chief shook his head and said, "You work for me. When I tell you to bring your guard with you, then that's what I want you to do."

"But what will he do when I go in?"

"Wait outside."

She was going to act as a page; however, she was not going into a city bringing divisive letters to leaders of the Alliance forces. Thrall was sending her to a small village, where he claimed a secret weapon was being developed. His reasoning seemed faulty to the education she had given herself on the state of the enemy, but there was little she could do but investigate. It seemed like a waste of her time, especially to bring Lo'jar out to the far reaches of the world on a useless mission that she could easily handle herself.

Morla felt more and more that having "protection" was a greater liability to herself than a precaution; she resented Thrall for not trusting her abilities, when she had shown herself to be fully capable in the past. The orc dismissed her and she left the throne room feeling bitter and irritable.

--

Between Duskwood and the forests of Elwynn ran a river; along the darkened bank, hidden in a grove and tucked away from most of civilization, a little village was stewing. It was smaller than a farmstead. Two orchards sustained the seven houses, one mansion, one shack, and one barn.

Morla stood outside, frustrated and unable to do anything about her situation. Lo'jar was nervous, wearing the same cloak she had before, though it didn't fit him as well. He had on immense boots to cover his troll-like feet and had the hood drawn over his face, though it didn't much disguise his protruding tusks. He felt both completely vulnerable, and also the human's annoyance; it radiated from her and infected his own bones, making him standoffish and defensive. The attitude between them seemed to have suddenly changed from a fair companionship and a beginning emotion of something more to a distinct frigidity. There was something about this mission that Lo'jar didn't quite understand, and whatever it was, it made Morla surprisingly distant. When the half-troll attempted to ask her just what Thrall had said or told her to do that bothered her, she shrugged him off and gave simple instructions.

He suddenly felt more like a bodyguard and not at all like a lover, or even a friend. It made him wonder what exactly there was between them—at least on her part.

Lo'jar was in love with her. He could admit it to himself, though he hadn't the guts even in his feet to tell her about it. He knew it was obvious enough how he felt. The little human girl had taken him over. She went one night to visit Clef, and he went to bed early because he was bored without her. He had dreamt about her and when he awoke, she was in the other bed. There was a little inner fury at the event but he quickly got over it; but alone, his sleep was oddly disturbed and it didn't get better until Morla rose, hearing him, and came over to sit with him.

However, besides the way she usually was, she never gave any indication about what it was she wanted. Now, she even seemed irritable about him. But realizing he was not properly attending to his guard duty, the half-troll turned back to the road—more of a thin path, really—and watched for anyone that might be approaching, also eyeing the village should trouble arise.

Morla stood impatiently at the door of the smallish mansion at the top of the road. There was a well beside it that two children were attending to; they looked at her curiously, but when she looked back, they scrunched up their noses and took off.

Eventually a servant woman answered the door and looked over her. "You must be the courier," she said, noticing Morla's outstanding outfit with white collared shirt and the flamboyant pants that the girl particularly hated. Morla nodded and the woman went off.

Sometime later she was let in. As she had been instructed she kept an eye out for anything unusual, but besides an enormous wall of history books and farming tutorials, there seemed nothing odd about the drawing room where she was seated on a small, comfortable sofa. Across from her was a door, which opened after a time. A very tall man came in and when she looked at him, she felt a small tingle of familiarity deep in her chest. However, when she stood up and examined him further, the feeling faded and she forgot about it.

The master seemed to catch on quickly that she was a mute and so he set to business. She took out the letter that she had to give him, which she had been asked to write herself as Thrall's Common specialist was away; he took it and sat, not immediately looking at her, and read a little before nodding his head.

"Then I assume he wants me to send my response back with you?" Slowly Morla gave an affirmative. She hadn't expected the ruse to work. The letter was from a "Dakkis" in Stormwind, a mage of "considerable" fame. He was asking that this man, someone she couldn't hardly remember the name of—though she thought it began with a "K" or maybe an "R"—please send him some ingredients for... something. Morla was too poorly informed to be pleased with the situation. The note went something like, "My messenger will have the funds to compensate you."

If this man gave her the correct materials, he was an alert; if he was tricky, he was on even more of an alert; if he provided nothing, refused, or simply had no idea, then Thrall would forget all about it.

Morla nodded her head then and he made a short list on a piece of paper, and handed the list to his servant woman. She went off into the house and after some minutes of tense silence, where Morla tried her best not to look at the rather stale-looking, older man, she returned and produced a small bag. He gave the bag to her and said, "This is free only on the condition that he send me his apprentice." She seemed confused then and the thin man gave her a sly, owlish smile, one that drew up his thin lips over his yellowing teeth and gave him a distinctly threatening appearance. She was at once put off and so hastily took the bag, bowing and nodding all with the greatest speed. The servant led her to the door and once outside, Morla left the town at a fast trot.

--

Though she had not noticed it while arriving, after she had left, Morla realized that she had definitely seen the little town before, and the wicked smile that hovered in her memory was one she knew had been there, in that same place, before; it terrified her and she couldn't quite understand why.

Thus she decided to take the materials first, flatly undermining Thrall, to the one person she thought she could trust. Lo'jar was clueless about the whole matter and for this she was grateful: she had a growing resentment of his babysitter-like quality, not one inherent in him, but one given to him by the atmosphere that kept them. He was slowly becoming a symbol of her prison, one that she sought to escape.

However, Morla still felt an irrefutable connection with the half-troll and had begun to depend on him for a measure of pleasure in her life. He was a lover and a friend, a constant, where Clef had abandoned her. This is what she felt about it, though she knew consciously this was not the case; she saw him often, but he seemed to push her away and this made her heart clench in her chest. She blamed Lo'jar for her distance from her best friend, her only family, and slowly she began to morph her anger at Thrall in her mind into one that was very misdirected.

Thus Lo'jar followed the warlock quietly into the depths of the Undercity, where she sought someone in particular. She took on her disguise here and followed the jewel like she had done all that time before, more than a year ago, she surmised. It took them, in what both surprised and didn't surprise her, to the same shack on the outskirts, though now it was far more dilapidated. She went in and stood, waiting for Matheas to look up from the work that seemed the same as the work he was doing the first time.

"I imagined you coming," he said, and gestured to a chair that hadn't been there before. She drew it up to the desk and the half-troll waited at the door, looking nervous. "I love what it's done for you."

"Thank you," Morla managed. This caught Lo'jar's attention, but he didn't let on. Instead he trained his ears on the conversation and kept his eyes out the door.

"What can I do for you?"

The girl took out the bag and put it on the desk, emptying out the contents. They were all too strange for her even to describe them, just random bits and pieces of things that had no real meaning in her undereducated mind. "I got these from a man. Here is the enchantment or whatever that they are supposed to be used for." She held out the paper she had been given with the information, and Matheas took it, contemplatively stroking the leather strap wrapped around his neck so tight that the flesh had long swelled.

There was silence as he looked over it, and then the pieces in front of him. After a while he spoke. "I don't know what to tell you, my girl. These are the things, except for this." He took a glove from his desk and used it to lift up an odd, diamond shaped piece that had a bit of a dark yellowish glow. "I can't put my finger on it, but there's something wrong with this one. It's not quite what it should be, and I imagine if it were used, equally strange results might occur." He then breathed on it and rubbed it with a cloth, which he stood up with and put into a jar. He disappeared into a small closet and came out with some liquid; he joined the clear substance and the cloth, which began to fizzle, just before black escaped and a small bud of smoke appeared.

Suddenly, Morla recognized it. "I know that!" she said suddenly, pointing to the shape just before it disappeared with a breath. Matheas gave her an odd look. She quickly looked at her wrist and shook it, so that the bracer she still kept there came loose and she removed it. Holding up her arm to Matheas, she grinned triumphantly; the warlock didn't reciprocate. Instead, he grew quite serious, and then gazed up at her.

"Do you remember anything about the life you had before this one?" She furrowed her brow. "Where did you live?"

"Well, I don't really remember..."

"Are you sure?"

The undead warlock knew she wanted to lie, but there was a sudden mystery springing to life and he would see it; to look and wonder if there was merit to it, perhaps there was a political kind of debauchery this girl might have wandered into at some point or another in her short life. She gazed at him and replied, "It was familiar. This village, and this man."

Matheas nodded. "Anything else?"

"That's all." She looked away and he knew she wasn't ready to speak more, or she simply didn't remember anything else. Though it wasn't much to work from, he imagined more might come in the future. Maturity could bring memory, and when it did, he wanted to be there.

"You can always come to me. I think this little errand of Thrall's might have something to do with you, whether or not he knows it. If you remember anything, come and talk to me. Until then, take these things back to your master and do as you're told." Morla nodded her head.

"Thank you," she said.

Matheas gave her his softest grin and replied, "You're always welcome."

--

Morla sat patiently, waiting, and watching, as some orc went through the ingredients and hummed thoughtfully, never once revealing what thoughts ran through his little devious mind. She had quickly grown irritable and suspicious about orcs, or much of the Horde, for that matter. Slowly she grew stale here and with each passing day, so did the things around her.

The orc wrote some things down and then waved his hand at her. She was being dismissed, without knowing anything about what she had done. Normally she would have asked a few innocent questions, but today, she wanted to sleep. Just to go home and lie down, and sleep forever and ever.

In the room Lo'jar wanted to be with her, but she shrugged him off and climbed into bed, even though the sun had barely started to disappear over the mountains. He stood in the middle of the room and thought very hard, for he was extremely intelligent, and then sat down once more at the table. He played a few games of cards with himself, inventing rules and then breaking them when they limited his ability to play, effectively avoiding his tendency to think, and think on the matter that he ought to be thinking on.

After a few hours of this—in which he ate some fruit—he sat down on the bed beside where Morla slept, her face looking disturbed. Watching her, he knew there was something else she would have to do, before everything could be all right. It made him tremble a little with emotion, but he lay down and went to sleep. In dreams, the girl reached out and he caught her, and they went on through the night hand-in-hand.

--

Thrall hadn't called on her in nearly a month, and Morla felt more idle and useless than any other time during her long stay in Orgrimmar. She thought about running away, but what would she do? She couldn't imagine living among humans, and she couldn't imagine keeping her disguise for the rest of her mortal life. When her situation seemed so hopeless, Gothor came to her and told her, "You're leaving."

The girl raised her eyes and so did her assistant, but he quickly averted and went back to his work like he wasn't overhearing anything. "What do you mean, leaving?" There were two emotions that hovered on the edges of her consciousness as the old, ugly shaman spoke. Giddiness, of course; she might be let free. She might be given a place to go. Somewhere new. Somewhere interesting. But, dread, too, that they were abandoning her. That she had done something wrong—that they would kill her, maybe. Did someone find out about her? Someone with more power than even Thrall?

"You are dismissed, for a time. The chief wants you to rest and prepare for a journey." She watched the shaman carefully. "You will be reacquainting yourself with human society. We want you to become integrated; to build yourself a position there; to gain reputation and eliminate any suspicion about you. Once you are inside, we will begin operations again."

Morla felt a sting, deep in her chest, and it burned its way up into her throat. She imagined she was a bit ill because her stomach turned. After some moments, though, she thought that instead it was probably fear, trepidation, and...

A little tremble of excitement.

This last part stunned her, before she took it and held it closer. Then she glanced at Gothor and gave him just a very small, insincere smile, and nodded her head.

"You may choose to go wherever, but we would like to see you in Stormwind before the end of the year."

Morla gave an affirmative, again.

"We will be communicating with you frequently, so you will have to find a medium for this."

She nodded.

"The rest is up to you. Thrall will not brief you."

He was ready to be rid of her. Morla knew this, at least.

After a few moments of silence the big, ugly orc got up and left. Sharp came over and sat with her, watching her face for a moment, and then when they locked eyes he gave her a very rare smile. It was lopsided from disuse and seemed a little awkward, but Morla felt the little bit of friendliness that was behind it.

"I will also be contacting you," Sharp told her then, "exchanging recipes and, should you need it, sending supplies. I assume you will use your abilities in alchemy to advance." Morla only watched him and she noticed her arm was going numb, so she moved it, but still the feeling persisted. "Though we don't want you to expose yourself, you also should keep up on your abilities. Make sure they stay hidden until needed."

Then they stood up and shook hands, and Morla left the little building easily. Even before going home she went to the blacksmithing shop, which was still open, and went in. Clef was working in the back corner, never instructing or talking with customers because he was unable. He claimed that he had grown better, but Morla couldn't tell—he had always been all right with her, unless he came upon one of his moods. However, it seemed he had somewhat grown out of his issues and was learning to manage on his own.

To be honest, this made her heart a little heavy; she had always liked the way that he needed her, and she needed him. But with his maturity controlling his disability and Lo'jar acting as her guardian, they seemed to have lost touch with one another.

She went up to the desk and when the big tauren saw her, his face changed completely. His nostrils flared and his eyes went a pillowy-soft; he got up and remained silent. She had shown him her fun trinket before, and now it amused him. It was strange to hear her talk, and so sometimes she would even sign to him. This she did, just to remember the old times. She was a girl of almost nineteen now, though in her skin she felt older, and Clef had grown to be less lanky and had the muscles given to one in his profession. However, he was still bony and thin-like for a male of his breed and in his age he seemed awkward; but to Morla, he was the same as ever.

She told him everything she knew to tell him, never once speaking. The head of the shop ignored them because he couldn't understand the signs she went through rapidly. Only Clef could understand her at this kind of speed. She imagined it was far faster than any normal being could speak.

When she had finished she breathed deeply. Clef stood up and went to his boss, telling him something quietly, and then came back to take Morla by the hand. They went out and walked around the great city, admiring buildings in silence and pointing out people walking who looked odd, or strange things they had noticed since being apart.

After a while they paused outside of the great Orgrimmar gates and Morla turned to him. "I am afraid of leaving," she said.

"B-b-because he c-can't go?"

Morla shook her head and reached up, taking his ears in her hands like she used to and rubbed them for a moment, and trailed her fingers down his great neck. She took a lock of his hair and braided it, and left it hanging over his shoulder. "Because you are the most important person to me. Even more than he. I love you, and I won't be able to see you."

They were quiet and watched as travelers came in through the gates, riding mounts or walking patiently. Slowly Clef put a great arm around her shoulders and drew her against him, and hugged.

"You will do good," he said in a low voice that crackled a little. "You will." Morla could only nod her head, and they turned around and went back the way they had come.

--

Morla told Lo'jar what she had to do, and they argued for a time about it, before he finally raised a hand in the air and said, "I will go with you, to leave you where you wish to go."

For this they went to the Undercity and then flew to Tarren Mill. "I don't know why you would choose this place," he said bitterly, as they stood on the edge of the little outpost and watched two forsaken guards walk by, talking and loosely wielding their weapons. "That village is the most dangerous."

"Every place is dangerous these days," Morla replied blandly. She turned to him. "I'm leaving you here."

The look on his poor face damaged her, but still she was too bothered and too much desiring to be alone. The desire wasn't founded on him, the half-troll with his insecure handsomeness and soft, leisurely voice, but within herself. She was ordered to do this and she would; her continued success at the game of life rested in the hands of the Horde, and so she would please them. At that moment when she looked at him, remembering his healing hands on her on the beach, and when he had helped her test her powers, hooded and standing up above the boiling lake, she tasted something bitter in her mouth. The hair that was usually wild now looked tame, soft and longish around his ears; his tusks seemed less prominent and the makeup on his eyes was coming off, and the glow in them was growing with each passing moment. When he reached out to her his fingers were thinner and longer, and Morla saw that he wasn't just half-troll, but half-elf, too.

She sighed when he touched her and so he drew away. Lo'jar felt a little confusion at her apathy, but it wasn't unexpected; however, the feeling inside him was more foreign. "I don't want you to do this," he told her. "At least not without me. I want to go with you."

Morla's eyebrows narrowed. "You can't."

"I will! What will you do? Maybe you can talk, but barely! You can't carry out these orders."

She was quiet, not arguing. Lo'jar opened his mouth to go on and then she cried, quite suddenly, "No! I don't need you!"

His eyes grew wide. "I don't need you anymore! I can do all these things for myself! Just... just step back." She pointed at the ground. The poor, confused half-troll looked at her and then the ground, and when she shook her hand, he reflexively did as he was told and took a step back. Morla took off the necklace and her disguise fell away, but no one was looking; Lo'jar looked ready to panic, but she signed to him, "Now go off!"

Morla turned and walked away. Lo'jar followed her with his eyes and his stomach churned angrily, but he couldn't bring himself to follow. She disappeared over the top of the road and into a grove of trees before the guards turned around and came back, where they stopped and watched him as he sat down on the ground, covered his face in his hands and cried like he had as a boy when someone stomped on his foot.

He had wanted to hear her speak; but never those words.


	12. Chapter 12

**The Traitor**

**Chapter Twelve**

Morla didn't hear about her experiments until a month after arriving in the small farming town in Hillsbrad. The place was surprisingly safer than she had expected, for the poisoned crops had all been cut down and new ones planted. Though they were poor for now, spirits were higher and when she came in, dressed in her nicest clothes, the footmen stopped her.

"What is your business?" She looked at them hopelessly and shrugged her shoulders. She felt quite miserable—she was going to be honest with herself. The crushed look in her lover's face had been almost too much. Morla gestured to her throat and then made a kind of sign with her fingers, like eating and drinking.

The two footmen that had come up to her gave each other looks. One said, "I don't see why not."

"Well, they said no strangers were allowed in, without a valid reason."

The first footman looked over her and she gave him the most endearing, innocent smile she could, despite the welling blackness building in her chest. "Look, she can't even reason with us. Just let her through and maybe have her talk to the councilman." The second seemed to consider this and then gave an irritated sigh, gesturing with his hand that she might pass by.

The first footman led her through the town, which looked only slightly different from the first time she had seen it, toward the town hall. A few men in robes gathered near the entrance, clearly picnicking for the midday and one stood when he saw them approach. "This girl appeared. She looks dumb, sir, so I don't know what to do with 'er."

Morla looked at the older man, who stroked and tended a salt and pepper beard. He looked her over and shrugged his shoulders. "What does she want here?"

The footman shrugged and, knowing he was useless, the councilman ushered him off. He took Morla by the elbow very gentleman-like and, nodding to his peers, took her inside the town hall.

It wasn't much of a building, a few rooms with wood paneling and one or two tapestries; inside and through a few doorways there was a more open room, and he sat her down at the table and poured her a drink, which she took gratefully. "Can you write?"

Morla quickly nodded her head and he provided her with pen and paper. She had practiced Common written language, both from memory and with a little tutoring. Now, she easily took down this brief history: "I have been an adventurer in the past, but I have been cut off from my family for certain reasons, and I am searching for work and shelter." It was simple and straight to the point, just one full sentence. She looked it over and then gave it to him with a nod of approval.

The older man considered her words for a few moments and then gave her a dazzling, somewhat odd smile, and tucked the paper away. He opened his hands and said, "Well, welcome to our humble village! Since the crop plague took a few valuable lives with it, the horse farm down the street has been looking for a new hand. I can take you there and we'll see what can be set up for you." This seemed simple enough for Morla, who had some experience with animals—namely the spiritual kodo mounts of the Tauren—and found the idea of working with a creature beside sentient beings very provoking.

Some hours later, Morla was seated at the table with a maid, another hand and a trainer's assistant. The table was adjacent to a larger one where the family ate. It was a rather extended family, with a mother and father, a set of grandparents, five children, an in-law and two grandchildren. They all lived in the very well-furnished house, for in the last years horses had become a profitable business and many people came from distances, even Stormwind, to buy the mounts grown at Miller Stead. They had one very prestigious stud that was well-cared for by the other hand. Morla had been informed that she would be handling the mares and their foals. This idea pleased her, and she relished the meal of meat, potatoes and beans set in front of her. It was classical enough—the family hadn't expected someone to come, so they promised real fine dining the coming evening.

It wasn't until Morla was done eating that she stopped to examine the people who now spoke rapidly and with great enthusiasm to one another. The grandfather was quiet while the grandmother argued with the mother. Two of the children were whispering and the grandchildren had gone off to play outside; one daughter was kneading her napkin and the father was talking with two of his sons, one of which Morla immediately recognized. His brown hair had grown darker and longer, and he now tied some of it back in a style that was very attractive, as far as humans went, she thought. He looked different without his helmet but his dark eyes were still just as innocent-looking as the day she had so casually noted his existence. He had acknowledged her but seemed too shy to do much more, so she turned away eventually.

A much more detailed image of Lo'jar still remained in the rear of her mind and it continued to bother her, so she smiled all around and silently excused herself from the table. The other hand followed her out and showed her the bunk she would use in the little off-house that used to be the servants' quarters. Now they had one maid, who slept in the bed below where Morla was putting in a pillow and extra blanket. "These nights can be chilly, it's not just spring yet." She only nodded and the hand, noting the tired lines under her eyes, smiled. "We'll all be in later, but we'll try to be quiet. Get sleep, because you'll be up early."

When he left she changed into some thick red cloth things she had adopted as sleepwear and climbed into the bed, which she found oddly comfortable. It was nothing compared to her bed at home... she sat up. It was she and Lo'jar's bed. She wondered if he was sleeping there, or if he was in Tarren Mill, or in the Undercity talking to Matheas and discussing all of her little secrets that the undead warlock somehow knew.

She didn't think yet on what she had said—it all just sprung from her, unbidden and, she had to think about it, mostly unfelt. She had just wanted him to step away, to leave her and get over it. There was something about the city and her job and all the things about it that made her feel so suffocated. It was never his fault, but at that moment, he was there. She blamed him, and though he didn't deserve it, she felt like a load had been lifted from her shoulders.

When the little human crawled back in bed, she felt warmth beside her and Alrash stood, watching her. He was alight in the darkness and he said to her, quietly, "We'll watch, and help. Call if you need it." She thought these strange words coming from the little denizen of hell, but the odd creature shook his head around a little spasmodically for a moment and then disappeared. She wondered what he meant, but sleep overtook her and she felt a little sad about the coldness of her bed.

--

At that time, Lo'jar was sitting outside the Mill, on top of a hill in the grass. The sun was setting and he watched it turn a blood color as it began to disappear behind the hills that, when he looked close enough, he could see had pines on them and were a much darker color than the green sheen of Hillsbrad. He didn't think too much about it, because somewhere he knew he would spend any infinite time until he saw her again—if he saw her again—thinking about it. For now, he would drift away from his haunted mind and instead pondered the color of the day and night as they faded into one another.

After the sun had disappeared and the stars had come out, glittering far brighter than Lo'jar remembered them being, he went back to the little town and took the last bat he could find. It would take him the short distance to Hammerfall, because his mother was home for a short time taking care of the rotting old place before she decided to completely abandon it. She had sold off the one cow as her last piece of business and was only staying there for a few days to memorize the sentimental value of it. He resolved that he would stay with her for a while, and go with her to Booty Bay; from there, he would continue with the life he had lived before he ever ran in to the misfit tauren and misplaced human, to pretend that the short interlude had never occurred.

Sitting on the bat, he wondered what he would tell his mother, if anything. After a time he decided if anyone could understand, it would be the night elf that fell in love with a troll. He could look to her. The half-troll rolled his shoulders and leaned forward on the bat, feeling more tired than ever before in his memory.

--

Morla groggily opened her eyes when she felt pokes on her arm. She saw the trainer's assistant still asleep, and the maid was hoping to prod her awake. Eventually she managed to sit up in bed and the maid gestured with her arm out the door, making it seem urgent. The maid went on outside and Morla crawled out and off the bed, where she set about to changing her clothes and dashing out after the other woman.

"Sunrise," she said, pointing off to the hills. "This is when you'll be awake from now on. My name is Bobby." She offered her hand and Morla took it, tentatively shaking. Bobby nodded her head and took a good step back, as if putting distance between them, and then gestured to the barn. "The other hand, James, is already opening up and feeding. You should go in there and he'll tell you what to do." Before the girl could leave, Bobby pointed to a thick leather pair of overalls hanging on the door. "Put those on. You don't want to get your clothes grubby as you'll be working in the stalls."

Though this prospect didn't seem overly bright, Morla was still optimistic as she managed on the heavy clothing and tied on boots that were too big for her. The maid had left into the house and so the warlock followed the orders given and went toward the big barn door.

The hand she had seen the previous evening was briefly feeding the animals before letting them out into the relatively small but still green pasture. He pointed silently to the amounts he was taking from the stack of hay in the back corner and then gestured to the empty stalls ahead; Morla set about to finding a pair of gloves and then followed on with her duties, doing any thing that the man, in his mid-twenties to early thirties, asked her to do. He had a gentle voice but hard-set eyes, like someone who had seen a lot of things but didn't talk about them. There came little out of his mouth that wasn't absolutely necessary to say, and because of her muteness, the two spent the morning mostly in silence.

The tranquility, however, was broken at nearly eleven when there came a piercing woman's voice. "Lunch!" Immediately, Morla turned to run inside, but James carefully tended to everything before heading to the house. She took this cue and followed his precedent, wanting to make a good impression. There was something much more enduring and attractive about this kind of assignment; though she was deceiving these people, she felt comfortable—much more than she had expected being. They weren't odd city people, or obnoxious travelers; they reminded her a little of her own people, tender and plain, living out their days with simple passions and work. Though she wasn't at home among the lands of the Alliance, there was a certain charm about the farm that made her future seem more bearable.

Lunch was loud, with everyone in attendance. A few of them were on the porch, others on the stairs, and the rest at two round tables near the door, all outside. The day was too nice, the mother had proclaimed when she brought the great meal outside. The two young children were ravenous, and Morla learned they were named Bo and Lennie, both boys. Their mother was Ellen, and their father was the son-in-law, Marcello. The two other girls in the family were Helena and Missy, while the boys were Henry and Edgar. Helena and Missy were the youngest, twins not even thirteen; Edgar was seventeen, and Henry was nearly twenty-three. Ellen was the oldest at twenty-four, and her two boys were four and five respectively. The mother and father of the many children were Hilda and Gwen. These names were all difficult for Morla to remember, for she had never grown up familiar with human names like a normal person; she could easily picture Brightwood, or Swifthoof—names like these were ones she knew. The two old people were Hilda's parents, and they weren't given any names: "Granny and Grandpa work just fine."

It was an accepting group of people, who talked to her even though she couldn't reply in a way they would understand. The food had an alluring aroma to it and when she ate it, she felt revitalized, and gave her greatest silent thanks to the cook. The mother told her, "I could have hired a cook, years ago, but I never did. I cook for this, a mute girl bowing her head and smiling." Morla felt a genuine ability to like such warmth. There wasn't a threatening bone in the whole place.

That afternoon the assistant-trainer came out and with him was the trainer, a professional man that lived in his own house a few yards off the street from the farm. He wasn't much like the Millers, and James seemed to avoid him with a most definite interest. From the assistant—Morgan—as he went into the tack barn to get ready the trainer's mount for the day, Morla learned the man was Mr. Dolen and he wasn't much to be trifled with except by Mr. Miller; even the young equestrian Edgar avoided him, because of the man's "much deserved" superiority complex.

Morla went about her afternoon duties far quicker than James had expected her to, and she took the half hour that remained to her before dinner to go out and watch Mr. Dolen ride about the paddock. He stopped the young horse every few steps, adjusting him, before going on to test his gait. It was all very mechanical and practiced. She watched him a little longer, hiding behind a trough, before James called her to go in.

That night the family opted to keep her while the other hand went back to put up the horses again. "You can handle it by yourself for now," Hilda told him, waving him off and smiling giddily at Morla. "Come in when you're done, we'll have cake."

"What for?" asked the two girls sitting in the corner of the great room, interrupting their discussion of the pattern of the blanket they were preparing to make.

"We have a new hand, of course. That warrants a cake."

"Everything warrants a cake for you, mother," Henry interjected. The mother stuck out her tongue at him and went back to the kitchen. Morla looked ahead, almost not wanting to look at him again in case he decided to ask her questions. Something about his familiarity made her nervous.

"So, do you like it here so far?" She raised her eyes and watched him where he sat on a stool, leaning back against the piano. He had opened it and occasionally pressed down a key, not making a tune but merely testing out the clearly underused instrument. Morla nodded and vaguely shrugged her shoulders. "Well, you'll be treated all right here." He didn't talk for a few more moments and Morla got bored with him, and looked away to watch the twin girls giggling and whispering, glancing at her every so often. When they caught her gaze they grinned big grins, and Morla couldn't help but smile sheepishly in return.

This was how she lived, then, learning to work in the stable during the day, and often being asked to sit in with the family during the evening; the mother had taken a very sudden and great liking to her, so she was often asked to come in while Henry played piano, or when Missy and Helena performed plays with hand-puppets and hid behind a wood box, their feet poking out from the sides. The girls liked her immediately and though they sometimes were annoyed with her muteness, they thought of it as a game and liked to imagine what she wanted to say to them. Sometimes they were right, and other times, Morla shook her head and sighed. Mr. Miller, Gwen—a name only used by Hilda's parents—was more distant and focused very intently on his business, meeting often with Mr. Dolen and going out to meet with traders. The Horde presence so close to their home didn't seem to worry them, and they never spoke of the tragedy Morla remembered hearing about—and remembered facilitating. The grandparents were tired old folk and though the grandmother was the talkative kind, Morla saw they were fading with age. They were kind enough. Edgar was indifferent to her, only wanting to learn to ride and train and sell horses. Marcello was a tradesman and often kept to his and Ellen's room; Ellen herself was a tailor and owned a shop in Southshore, which she traveled to with frequency to deliver finished products and pick up new materials. The two boys were wildmen and spent all their days playing, often following Morla into the barn to help her idly with her chores.

Henry was a very different matter altogether. He was kind and gentle, but with it came a very distinct distance. When she was near him she often felt his eyes intently on her, but when she turned, he looked away and acted like she didn't exist. It was a peculiar thing to her but, not needing to be perplexed in a society already so alien, she avoided thinking about it.

There was one odd thing, besides Henry, that occupied Morla in her first days at the Miller farm. In her bags she had stowed some things that a guard left with her. "From Thrall, with instructions." Why he hadn't just kept them she didn't know; inside there was the small, black stone that she knew was familiar—though she couldn't quite place it—and a letter. It had a note attached, and the letter was sealed, so she didn't open it.

The note read, "In Undercity, show this badge, and ask to see Sylvanas. This letter and the contents of this box must go to him. He will know if any have been tampered with." Was this what she had been working towards? Being sent the final distance, now that she had gone so far? She rolled the black stone over in her hand and then kept the box the way she found it, closing the latch and stowing it away in a safe place. For a few days she had felt almost curious to the breaking point about what might be inside the letter; but after a while she grew tired of thinking about it and eventually forgot.

Morla then was absorbed into her new life. James began to learn some of her signs, which she changed a little to suit the Common language, as a few were simply only practical in the Orcish sense. A few of these also the family learned—at least those that cared to—but only one picked up everything she taught them (when asked) and remembered.

It was an evening of the full moon, as the middle of spring came on and new foals were gallivanting about the paddock, let out to play thanks to the fair weather. Morla sat on the porch and watched the two boys play much like the horses, so similar and yet, still different; piano came out through the windows until people began talking, when the music stopped. After a few seconds the door opened and Morla felt a familiar presence settle down on the steps beside her.

"What ended you up here?"

She didn't dare look up. Having Henry directly address her was rarer than a pleasant look from the horse trainer. After a few moments she felt that his patience might be wearing waiting for a reply, so she signed to him in the simplest way she could, knowing he probably wouldn't understand.

"I was a traveler and a hunter for a while, but I wanted to go home and re-settle. When I went, however, the house had been destroyed." Surprisingly, he nodded his head without looking a bit perplexed.

"I see." There was a pause that Morla felt was uncomfortable, but she was sure he didn't detect at all. "How long are you staying for?"

This was a trickier question. "As long as I'm welcome."

When she stopped signing he looked up from her hands and it was the only moment she could remember beside that day years ago when he had actually looked at her right in the eyes. It was a little unnerving. "I'm sure you're welcome until you die."

Though the phrase seemed menacing, his voice was pleasant and kind, much like she was used to. Usually the girl could feel messages through people, or see in them what they meant; this man, however, was more secretive than that, but yet she couldn't feel anything but amity in him.

Without warning he smiled, and stood up. There came some music through the window and she heard Hilda shout, and Ellen say, "Ah! The phonograph!" It was an upbeat tune, starting very suddenly, strange to her but with a country charm. She gave Henry a curious look and he only smiled.

"May I have this dance?" He tucked one hand behind his back and offered the other to her, and winked. She was too surprised to do anything else but accept and with a swift motion, they were off down the steps and into the grass. He spun her around and she went with it; he took her in a circle and she followed; she was moving and being carried along to the beat. His hands were firmly on hers and when the music went into a dip, he grasped her hip with one arm and tipped her back over it with an ease she found amazing. Humans were short, she thought, and small, but much stronger than she expected.

Before they could look at each other for long the music kicked back up again and they were spinning and moving their feet again. The moon was so enormous that it seemed to light up the whole world, giving it a surreal kind of silvery sheen. The little horses were dancing too, it seemed to her when she saw them, and the boys rolling and tumbling about in the lawn; even the flowers drifted to and fro, even though there was no breeze, and the air was an unusual kind of warm.

They tired after some minutes of this and sat back down on the steps, feeling much more at ease. Morla looked over at the man, who now seemed no more than a boy to her, and when he returned her gaze she smiled. They sat quietly there for some time, listening to the music as it changed to the next song and after a while, the moon rolled higher over the sky and the house began to go to sleep. Bo and Lennie went in to their mother's call and the only ones still out were Morla, Henry and the two foals, who went across the paddock and curled up in the soft grass.

As it seemed that even the stars' twinkle was dimming, Morla stood up after a period of silence and waved goodbye, gesturing to the servants' quarters to sleep. He looked at her pensively for a few moments and then nodded, and with that she went off to bed.

--

After two weeks, Morla began to take short trips during the time when she was left alone, during breaks or in the dead of night, out into the woods and fields. She used her spell of herb finding and went into the dark—for usually she had to settle on searching while everyone else slept. Small orbs of light would rise up into the air above an earthroot, or some silverleaf; she followed the little wisps and filled a bag, keeping the herbs that required drying and stuffing the rest in her pockets.

Once she had gathered quite the collection, stuffed behind the bed in bags she had learned to make from linen pieces or from bed sheets that Hilda threw away, she sent back to Orgrimmar for vials and other supplies. She sent with the letter a label that read like they were sentiments coming from a family; Sharp would understand.

Then life went on again and Morla spent her best days being charming and quiet, earning daily the affections of the kindly Millers. But Henry resumed avoiding her; he seemed to have re-adopted the method of watching her from afar, and then only talking to her when it was absolutely necessary. This regression saddened her in a surprising way, for she learned she cared more about his opinion than anyone else's in the household, save James. It seemed almost that he had a close-up distaste, and it bothered her.

It was late one evening after the trainer had left and the assistant was in the house talking with Mr. Miller when James came up to her, leading a fully tacked horse by the reins. Morla gave him a quizzical look.

"Are you ready?"

She raised one eyebrow.

"To learn to ride."

A few minutes later she was clinging onto the saddle for dear life, her knees buried in the animal's sides and her feet barely clinging to the stirrups. James was holding the reins with one hand and gesturing to her with the other as he spoke. "You've got to sit up straight. Here, take these in your hands. Don't hold them too tight or too loose." The girl tried to obey his instructions as best she could, and after a few moments of fumbling she had control. He released the horse but it didn't move, for the creature was older and somewhat jaded with life.

Eventually she managed to usher the horse forward a few steps before she jerked back roughly on the reins and the bored animal halted abruptly. "Now, be gentle. Have him walk."

She let loose on the reins and pressed the horse's sides so it stepped; then another, and then it was walking. She went around the small round paddock where Mr. Dolen usually trained, and she followed the dirt paths ground into the grass. Sometimes she turned and went the other way, or stopped and went reverse; the horse followed her orders easily and after nearly a half hour of this, James determined that they were done for the evening and helped her to get off using the fence.

After they had put up the animal they sat outside, still digesting dinner, and lounged on the fence beside the barn. Some horses ate and others stood, swishing their tails and looking on the two visitors with bored interest.

"So," James said, and Morla gave him an odd look. Rarely did he talk to her more than was necessary, and the assertiveness of his tone was surprising. "What's really your story?"

Morla jumped. Was he implying that he knew she was lying? Immediately questions flooded her; did he know her secret? How had he found out? Would anyone else learn of it, too?

He seemed to have sensed her panic and he waved one hand. "I don't really care any way, I'm just curious. You're not just anyone. You're a very particular someone and I merely want to know who."

Morla shrugged her shoulders and looked away for some moments, and let out a sigh. The other farmhand didn't say anything else, and after a few minutes of awkwardness, he stood up and left.

The girl remained, thinking over his question and wondering really what his answer was. Even she didn't think she knew who she was anymore—she had felt so tauren, so purely Horde, but living with these people made her wonder just how much human was really in her. She remembered Lo'jar these times and wondered what he was doing, or how he was faring out in the world, since she knew that was where he had gone; but as time wore on, after the months began to pass, her image of him began to fade.

That night she sat still when the front door opened, some time after the house had grown quiet, and there were footsteps on the boards of the porch as someone came out. Henry sat down where James had been before, and he didn't say anything for the first few minutes, and then, "I guess I can't worry that you'll tell anyone else about this," he said, not looking at her. His eyes were focused intently on the ground, and Morla immediately began watching him.

He was quiet again and it seemed to her that he was gathering himself up inside. Then, he turned to her and with the sweetest, brownest eyes—almost black—he told her, "I think I'm in love with you." Morla almost didn't pay attention to his words because his face was so vulnerable and exposed, waiting patiently but with dread for a kind of verdict. He reminded her vaguely of an inmate she had seen, locked up and gazing out, knowing he will be condemned but hoping somehow that things would turn out all right in the end.

The confession was so sweet to her and so strange, she couldn't help but smile. This caught Henry off-guard, but he managed to keep himself together and wait for her as she summoned a response.

She had been told to ingrain herself—to make a name for herself, and to build a legitimate base among the Alliance. This boy, her elder by almost four years now, was just that: he could give her authenticity and with it she could move on with her plan.

It was almost too perfect. She couldn't help but grin at him and with a practiced kind of ease, she leaned forward and Henry brushed some of her hair away from her face, took her chin in his palm and kissed her. Hilda watched from her window above them and was pleased at the choice her son had made.

--

When her package returned, Morla took it to her room and sat quietly on her bunk, above the view of an average joe, and began to disassemble it. There was a letter from Zamah, and another from Sharp; there were two vials empty, and two more full of liquid, corked closed. They were labeled and she set them aside in their wrapping, putting them back in the bag so they would keep until she needed them.

Sharp merely assured her that her request had been received, and more would be sent within two weeks.

What Zamah had to say was more interesting:

"The farm where you allegedly," this word was underlined, and Morla imagined Zamah sneering as she wrote it because of her distaste for formality, "found the deadly herb is apparently abandoned. When I had heard of it there were some tending, but they left it because there didn't appear to be too much to gain from it besides a vague poison that was too easily detected to be spread in any way beside the spider venom, which was acknowledged. Thus I believe the following:

"Achsbor's spider was of the wild kind, larger and thus farther from Brill, and so it can't be reasonable to think that it ate the tame herb, which we will call merely Dreadherb, rather than the Dreadfall herb. If she properly knew what she was getting into with the spider, she would never have found one that could kill her even more easily than a human.

"The Dreadherbs had been well tended when you found them, and because of this claim of abandonment I believe it was not any forsaken that we know of, or even any one that we know of, who might have been tending them. Whoever this anonymous person was, he purposefully altered these herbs before the forsaken gave up on them—as I found them in this order, you found the result, and the appearance of them does not seem to have changed—and then continued to farm them after the owners of the farm had left.

"This leads me to this conclusion, and as you are someone I consider nearly my peer, I will share this information with you alone, for now: the logical explanation is that someone wants to weed out the orcs. Of course this is a common wish among the allies, but this incident is unique in that somehow, someone has managed to sneak into Tirisfal and go about their business like a person not out of place; also, he has not yet attempted anything on the race, but is merely gathering these herbs and letting them rot away.

"Because the intentions are not clear, we are leaving the stead alone for the time being. I have sent your assistant to watch it for a few days, and so he will not be able to continue communications with you until he returns. Though I know he is not made for field work, he'll have to do for now.

"Good luck. We expect to see things from you soon."

Morla wrapped up the letter. She didn't think about the ordeal when she went to sleep, because she knew Zamah, despite her callousness, was doing all the right thinking for her.


	13. Chapter 13

**The Traitor**

**Chapter Thirteen**

They talked often now. Henry worked for parts of the day, coming home around two for lunch; these times he went to the barn with the meal wrapped up, and they went out to the field away from the farm and ate on a little blanket, complete with white and red square pattern, and they ate chicken complemented by bread. In this solitude they didn't speak often, for Henry had a quiet nature and by nature, so did Morla.

She quite enjoyed the man's company. He was quite nice to look at, with finer features than any she had seen, though she saw few humans on a regular basis, so she had little foundation for comparison. His hair looked very soft and one time she ventured to touch it: he shied at first, but seeing her intention, he welcomed her and she marveled at the silkiness of it. The boy had one prominent mark on his face, a lengthwise scar from his ear to his cheek that was colored reddish-pink, but faded into white. It was a story about riding horses as a child—he didn't much like the animals these days. This seemed reasonable to Morla.

Her spontaneous lessons became weekly, and then daily; by that time, she was concocting potions and storing them, sometimes venturing out on her one weekend day off to sell them in Southshore. It was a long walk, but she would go with Ellen on occasion, and other times Marcello would go also to make sure nothing befell them on their way—though Morla knew she could defend them far better than some infinitesimal human male.

She developed a reputation in the small town and Ellen must have known, but she said nothing; she spoke to Morla sometimes, usually simple things and requests.

Life went on like this for some time, until one of the vendors in Southshore asked where she hailed from. She motioned off toward the village, and he gave her a blank look, so she drew a map. This was what she needed: someone seeking her out.

"We want to start a new line, and we were looking for a reliable supplier."

Morla wrote her answer: "Then I need a supplier, as well." They exchanged figures and they would ship her what she needed—besides the special ingredients, which they would add into her final paycheck, but she had to get for herself as a part of the job description—and she would come back with their line. It was a great deal, and though the pay was minimal, he ensured her that if her skills were what she said, then there was a very conducive future ahead of her.

What was tricky was telling Henry about her little hobby.

--

Morla's great opportunity came in mid-July. The Miller family had fairly acknowledged that she and Henry were in "courting" mode, or whatever silly humans called it, and so they were often left alone to be together—Hilda figured they would have to get another hand for the farm when the two were married, but she didn't mind. Morla looked forward to this for a multiplicity of reasons, but the greatest for her was that they had the opportunity to move away—possibly to Elwynn, which was a very appealing idea. It would perfectly serve her purposes.

Henry proposed to her in the corral while she sat atop a little old mare, nearing eight in the evening, so the sun was just beginning to set. He went over and whispered in James's ear; the hand stopped the horse and Henry went to where Morla was, and because she was so high up, he needn't kneel. He lightly grasped her knee in one hand and the unexpected touch was surprising, but not unwelcome; then he held out a small soft red cloth and she took it, unfolding it, and inside there was a thin gold band that had little visual value, but she could feel the sentiment behind it. She could only nod her head and smile as he took the ring and slid it on her finger, and held it up for anyone who might be near to see.

They didn't move her out of the servants' quarters. It was inappropriate to let them stay together, and everyone agreed on this—except Morla, who found it all very and unnecessarily complex—and there weren't any extra rooms even with Lennie and Bo sharing their little room in the back of the house. So she would stay in her same bunk, even though Henry quite chivalrously offered to switch with her, and continued to work on her little projects.

It became the custom then that they would work with the horses in the afternoon, and then eat lunch—Morla, James, and Henry. James seemed indifferent to the whole thing and seemed occasionally displeased that he would be losing the hand he had just finished training, but he never talked to her about it and she really had no way to bring it up, or a reason to.

Henry had to work a day through when Horde sightings increased, and so he stayed out on duty and had a sandwich; James left her alone with the horse, Maria, and they went around together in the paddock alone, switching between a trot and a slow, gentle lope that soothed the warlock's nerves. She wanted to take the spare time to summon up Alrash and practice with him, or release corruption spells on little rabbits, but the motion of the horse was too alluring and so she remained there, going in circles and occasionally making figure eight shapes.

She had met the trainer again a few times, but he never spoke to her; instead, he took on his assistant, and often she could hear the older man hollering angrily across the barnyard. He seemed to have a foul distemper and though he was accomplished with the horses, he was quite rude to them, too. With her muteness there was an inherent ability in Morla to observe people better, for she was never thinking of what she was going to say, but wholly listened to them and watched them move and talk. From watching this man's agitations she saw he was an easily irritable person, with an inability to relate to anyone but himself; he was fully absorbed in those things that involved him and nothing else. He was very demanding and greatly disliked anything to be denied to him. Mr. Dolen could not accept blame for anything, even when the rather ornery colt he was training lost skin off his leg from a rather harsh episode.

Everything about him would have disturbed a normal person, could they see what Morla saw, but she was too used to seeing the absolute natures of people that she hardly regarded him. Instead, she listened to Henry and his father exchange words about where they were planning to live, and what they might use to buy the house that Henry could see in his mind's eye.

He told her about it. "I have a lot of money saved up, you know, from various jobs, and what I usually do. Of course I give many large parts to my parents, because I still live with them—which I find not so much abhorrent before, but absolutely unacceptable after we wed—and I have plans for the rest. Outside of the town of Goldshire, rather close to the metropolis but not quite inside of it, I wish to build a house, and till a farm; we can have a modest crop with some hands, and some horses, and some cows and sheep too; we can work it, and also I can offer up my abilities as a guardsman. I have always found this land to be one not fit for living, with the threat always lingering on the outside. If we were to live in Elwynn, we would be protected by Westfall to the west, Duskwood to the south, Redridge to the east and Stormwind and the dwarves to the north; we would have little to fear there, and having come from these troubled lands, that is vastly appealing to me." Morla could only agree with this, and so Henry set a date sometime before the wedding to go and seek out a stead on which they could build.

This day in July James had gone off on a short errand to get a bridle repaired by the local leatherworker, and Morla sat, riding Maria about; they were having a pleasant time, for the sun was gentler today than it had been and there was a bit of a breeze rippling through, so the grass bent and glimmered like a vibrant emerald carpet covering landscape. As she watched, she didn't see the trainer approaching; when she turned at the sound of the gate being opened, she was surprised.

"Why are you on that pony?" His voice was disguised, Morla noticed, but what he was hiding in it, she couldn't be sure. Immediately she became suspicious of him when he walked towards her and patted the animal's neck, and it jerked a little but didn't move, being as obedient as it was. She shrugged her shoulders and gently touched Maria's mane, and the horse was slightly more at ease. Mr. Dolen removed himself a few steps away and went around her, so he could observe the cinch from a short distance.

"Ah, right, you're the mute one," he said, looking at her. He barely nodded his head and seemed to be examining her, as she sat there and was intent on what he had to say. "While I don't quite appreciate you riding one of my horses, especially while I am still on the watch, I can't deny that you have a fair posture." Morla knew this man so well, even if it was just a brush in the jacket to the amount of things she knew about people she actually came into contact with regularly, that she didn't spring on his comment about the horses—who in fact belonged to Gwen Miller—and gave him instead a look that was more appreciating of his statement. He rubbed his chin. "Ride around for me."

Obeying, Morla took the reins and with only the faintest clip from her heel she got Maria walking, an even pace; then she was trotting, and with her thighs and a little help from the mouth she wound the animal around in fun shapes; finally she loped, absorbing the movement and encouraging a mild speed. Eventually she slowed and went around to where Mr. Dolen stood.

The man watched her with careful eyes and clapped. The claps went on for some time and then he abruptly stopped, and said, "Absolutely wonderful. Has James been teaching you? He's doing quite a job, and procuring quite the rider. Might you be interested in competitions?"

At this, Morla wished she could laugh outright, but she couldn't; instead she shook her head and gave the best appearance of disinterest. "You could be quite good." She still said nothing nor made any movement, and he seemed to quickly grow bored of her inability to reply to his compliments.

Instead, he came closer, and the girl felt a chill run from the point on her knee where he touched her through her hips, spine and right into her mind. She jerked back without conscious acquiescence. This seemed to release the man, and he leaned in more. Morla cleared her throat but Mr. Dolen only smiled.

"Well, I would very much like for you to do this. It would be good for you." He looked around, and Morla immediately recognized the surveying look; he was asking himself, "Is anyone watching?" He was saying in his mind, "There is no one, I can do as I please, and she'll never say a word."

There was something ominous about him—though what was more ominous to Morla was that she couldn't quite do anything about it. She knew that exposing her powers could risk her life, and this small trifle was hardly worth it; though her opinion altered a little when his hand moved up from her knee and across her thigh, she remained still and eternally silent.

The horse seemed to detect the strangeness going on behind her and the creature jerked a little, causing the trainer's grip to release just long enough. However, he took Morla by the arm and, surprising Maria, pulled the girl right off the saddle without much effort. The horse trotted to the side of the small ring, wanting to get out, but when she found the gate closed she stood there and slung her head over the door.

Morla landed without much grace, as her foot had caught, and so she was half-crumpled on the dirt ground; the older man tightly gripped her arm to keep the other half of her aloft. She attempted to take herself to her feet—by jerking her arm away—but he most definitely wouldn't let her free and instead he pulled her up with a sudden and uncomfortable movement. Once Morla was standing Mr. Dolen took her wrists in his hands and, knowing he could completely physically overpower her, he took his time walking across the small area to the fence; he pressed her against it and told her, "Well, isn't this nice." He squeezed her hands tighter and shook her; in response, she nodded her head and he smiled widely.

This was a fear that Morla had never quite experienced before, and so she had a little spark of fear in her that when he moved closer, ignited. It rose up into her throat when she could smell his overpowering smell of horse and sweat and a kind of scummy musk. As he touched her and began to press his body against hers, she felt as if everything was squeezing her to the fence and she became suddenly aware of the wooden boards in her back; they splintered through her shirt and she squinted her eyes. The man took this as an expression of distaste and it agitated him—this Morla quite clearly saw when she looked up once more and he squeezed his fingers into her arms instead of her wrists, so she felt the flesh bruise.

"What?" he asked disdainfully, and quietly, as if anyone else might hear him. "You don't like it? Are you afraid?"

Not wanting to admit weakness, Morla shook her head and looked defiantly back at him, though she knew this wasn't the best idea; instinct seemed to take her over and the little flame of fear was both asking her to flee, and asking her to fight—whichever was most possible. With the instinct to fight came the warmth in her arms, and she tried to hold it back and see if this irrational man could be reasoned with before she accidentally destroyed him.

Then he gripped her with one hand and began to roam with the other. The first image that sprouted up in Morla's mind was of a time when a strange but alluring creature touched her, much more gently, much more intimately, and she realized she couldn't quite remember his name; but she focused on this and tried to dissuade the rippling power that sought to be released and unleash horror upon this bold and pitiful man. She closed her eyes and only wondered what might happen to her, should she lose control.

She would have to defend herself, if it came to that; until then, she waited, silent, and struggled occasionally with her hands while her thin body remained still as a board. Though Mr. Dolen seemed daunted for a short time by her resistance, he quickly resumed and pressed one knee of his between her legs. This contact was infinitely unwelcome, and the little flame of fear rose up in her to a bonfire and she began to writhe.

Morla would get away. She would spare his stupid life and escape with her own mortal will, and Hilda would believe her; the trainer would be gone before the day was up. This much she knew and it comforted her when she lashed out in her arm with all of her strength, so it momentarily pulled away from Mr. Dolen's iron-hard grip. This surprised him enough that she could wriggle more of herself away from the shield of his body, which held her down like a vice or a rock; but he recovered too quickly and then, now angry, slammed her body with force back against the fence.

Pain lanced through her very muscles as the wood boards refused to give and took against her quite rudely. He now began to reach up her shirt with one hand and hold her still with the power of two legs and a spare arm. If he didn't stop quite soon, they would come, even without her asking. It had happened before; it would happen again.

There was a blur of motion and Morla felt the wind knocked out of her. She fell back further against the fence and without someone to hold her up she fell, gripping one of the planks and filling her hands with long, thin splinters. She heard scuffling and she saw above her that James had leapt upon the trainer, his arms around the older man's neck. Mr. Dolen cried out in anger and reached back, taking a hold of James by means that Morla couldn't quite make out, and threw him down like a professional wrestler. But the farmhand was equally empowered by rage and lunged, headfirst, into Mr. Dolen; they both stumbled a few feet and a movement by the trainer took them both to the ground. There they punched and kicked, rolling about like irritated apes. The girl was fascinated and managed to get to her feet, where she watched with wide, unbelieving eyes.

Finally, she approached the fray. In a way she wouldn't be able to remember later, she managed to take a hold of Mr. Dolen and then she kicked him in the side, so she felt a rib broke beneath her shoe and that feeling was one of the most gratifying she had ever felt. The man cried out and in his surprise and agony, James managed to get away from him and subdue him by a similar kick. He didn't move much, but his eyes were open and he was shouting out curses like Morla had never heard before.

James was breathing hard and when he looked at her, he said nothing and stepped back nervously. He kept his eyes on the ground, before his wounds took his attention.

Morla looked over the poor boy and saw that he was bruised all over, with a few scrapes and a very nasty looking cut in his shirt; it was the only part that was showing underneath his leather travelwear. Leaving the wretch on the ground moaning, the girl took James by the arm and they equally limped back to the house.

--

Only Hilda, Edgar and Missy were there, but that was enough; while Morla went to get the healing potions she kept behind the bed, Edgar went out and dragged Mr. Dolen into the house in a way that must have been extremely horrible for both of them, because when she got back, Edgar was hollering and the trainer was moaning even worse than before. Missy had left and James was silent and sitting, holding his arm, while Hilda sought to tend to him but he wouldn't say anything until Morla returned.

She came in and without motioning anything to him she began tending to his wounds with the potion. She had him drink some for the well-being of his internal organs and she applied the rest to outer cuts and bruises. She removed his armor and shirt, and following the trail of a particular cut, she found quite a large gash in him where he must have intercepted with a rock, or perhaps Mr. Dolen's boot; no one said anything as she did this, and once she had finished, James replaced his clothes.

Then, much to Edgar's objections, she set about to fixing up the pitiful, whining horse trainer. He didn't seem to acknowledge that she was there for he was so absorbed in his pain. She made him take the drink and at first he spit it up, but then he took it; after that he seemed to be doing better and Morla left alone his superficial wounds.

Once she had finished she stood and put away her supplies. Eventually Hilda sat down at the table.

"I have a few questions." Morla sat down across from her and nodded. Mr. Dolen was still on the floor, and Edgar kept an eye on him should he try to do anything.

Hilda looked at her eldest son. "What did you encounter?"

"This man forcing himself upon my assistant." He kept his eyes straight ahead, and his hands were clasped together on the table. "I attacked him, to take him off of her. As you can see—"

"He roughed her up," Edgar finished.

"Shut up." Henry was standing by the door with Missy, who had gone to get him; the boys looked at each other, but the seventeen-year-old was finished by his brother's deadly severity. Hilda only nodded at this and looked at Morla.

"This is true?" The girl very faintly nodded, not looking at her fiancé. It was best to let James do the talking, and keep her participation to a minimum. Then, the woman let out a sigh and said, "At least you are all right. It's a miracle that James came when he did."

"Not really," he interrupted. "I knew something was wrong, so I came." He looked at Morla and the expression was so intense, his ice blue eyes so full of something that she couldn't define, it frightened her and she had to look away. Henry, seeing this, came over and sat down beside Morla; he took up her hands in his and comfortingly rubbed them. James looked away.

Hilda cleared her throat. Then, she looked at the empty vials on the table. "Are these yours?"

Morla saw that the mother was talking to her and she nodded her head. "You bought them?" She shook her head. This caused both Henry and his mother to look surprised.

"I made them," she signed to Henry, who interpreted.

"Do you do this often?"

Morla nodded again.

"How often?"

"I am an alchemist," she signed, which was again relayed. She shrugged her shoulders. "It was a talent I developed on my adventures."

Hilda seemed to contemplate this, while Henry only looked perplexed; then he shrugged his shoulders and stood up.

"This is inconsequential. James is fine now, and I'm sure this man will be with medical attention. I'm going to get father."

"He's at the town hall today," Hilda told him.

"I know."

As Henry was leaving, Morgan, the trainer's assistant, came in a little breathless and Edgar related the story to him, as Hilda rose and left the room. Morgan sat beside Morla where Henry had been and watched her; she eventually returned his gaze and the gentle hand seemed pleased.

"You look all right," he said, sighing. "I found Maria standing abandoned in the ring, and no one was around but I had seen Dolen walking off toward where you had been. I heard loud voices in here and so I came." He ran a hand through his hair and hunched his shoulders.

"I suppose you've just been promoted to head trainer," James interjected.

Morgan looked at James and didn't say anything after that; he patted Morla's shoulder once, and then went out to finish attending to the horses. Edgar remained to watch over the injured man on the floor, but not once did he speak to the mute, and she made no move to look at him. The uncertain tranquility was broken when Bobby came in and carefully took Morla by the arm, and led her out of the house and to the servants' quarters. There, the maid put up her charge and though it was the middle of the day, she said, "Take a nap, and we'll bring you dinner."

Morla was more tired than she had previously thought. There was still a bit of fear in the bottom of her and when she went to sleep, she didn't think or know that it was a spark that would never go out.

--

After then, it was open that she was working with potions and things of that nature. She began receiving her supplies from Southshore and she was set on a new schedule, where most of her day was with the horses, while some part was reserved for creating the various concoctions the store owner required.

The family, at least the older parts of it, learned of what had occurred and immediately the two girls called for something to be done to Mr. Dolen; but Morla resisted this and Gwen settled it all by saying, "He will never set foot on this farm again, or any others in Hillsbrad." As usual, his heavy voice ended any argument and dinner went on in silence.

Morla went with Henry on their short trip to Elwynn. They flew by gryphon to Stormwind, and went out on horseback to the lands outside the great city. Though Morla had seen the town before, Henry showed her a quaint tavern and other interesting things she hadn't previously noticed. He was very astute, and though he kept a reasonable distance from her usually, he took the opportunity on the gryphon to hold her as tightly against him as he could.

The little region seemed nice enough, Morla thought, and close enough, as well. They rode westward from Goldshire for a short while and there was a sign by the woods, announcing them uninhabitable because of the wolves and other creatures living there; this seemed easy to remedy to Henry and he immediately went to the officials of Goldshire to announce his intention.

The next few months were easy for Morla, and for once she could enjoy it. She was busy and though Henry was often gone, preparing the land, she often found company with James and Morgan as they took the old assistant through his new duties as head trainer. He seemed eager and Morla found the black-haired boy had an unusual affinity for horses, and they for him; it appeared he would do his job well, if not better than his predecessor.

Work on the house was well, from what Morla knew, and two weeks before the wedding she and Henry traveled back once more to look at it. He had hired a good number of people to build it for him—this was the amount of money he had saved, and he had only used a portion—and when they saw it, the neat little two-story cottage was nearly finished. They had cleared the trees and hunted the wolves; with the help of Henry's friends among the footmen, they had chased off the Defias that occasionally hung around the property, which resided near the lake. The furnishings were being placed on the lower floor as the upper one was being completed.

Morla was satisfied and let Henry know. They sat outside the property in the grass and loosely held hands, while he told her some of the things he had done to suit them both. She was overcome with a strange kind of feeling, like she was finally seeing a place where she knew she could belong; it was welcoming and not unnatural, for Henry's humanness didn't bother her like the rest of his kind did. Before her was a place that she was intended for, and not one she had to adapt herself to live in. The idea of belonging frightened her at first, but Henry's hand clasping hers and his quiet, melodious voice lured her in and she couldn't help but smile.

The wedding was quite boring and Morla dispensed it in her memory as an event of extreme unimportance; though she minded leaving her duties with the horses and the kindness of the wide Miller family, she was more excited to begin something that, although it was so much of a farce, seemed like a new part of her life unfolding. They rode down in a carriage laden with things, led by two horses and towing one more; they had arranged to purchase two milk cows and were postponing the sheep until they could find someone to tend them.

Though the journey was long, arriving at the house was worth the trip. Edgar and Marcello helped to unload the carriage, and left two of the horses—one for riding and one for plowing—while taking the other back with them; Morla, Henry, and all of their things remained.

--

There was a great bed on the second floor, in a wide master bedroom that they shared. Henry was shyer than Morla expected and so they lived together, contacting with no more than touches and kisses, for more than a week. Life was pleasant but difficult to get into, as Henry was working out his duties and Morla was trying to figure out the whole farm thing. Henry spent time with her on attaching the plow to the horse and, once she had plowed the field, showed her the art of planting; they had dug irrigation before the house was finished and as time began to pick up, the sown field came to life and Morla was most pleased with her work.

It was a late Sunday when Morla sat down to write to James, as he had asked her to do. He was still the same around her as ever; when they left, he merely waved and gave her a respectful nod. She hadn't known him very long, but Morla had a debt to him; it wasn't one she would long forget.

Then came the night when Henry turned to her and took her hands in his, just as she went to turn out the light. They looked at one another and Morla remembered when she had seen him just standing, his helmet too large, watching her. "I was in love with you then, too, and all the time that you lived with us," he admitted. His eyes absorbed her so often that she sometimes couldn't focus on what he said, but that time the two things were complementary and she heard him quite well.

"Doesn't it bother you not to hear me speak?" she signed.

Henry laughed then, a rare thing, and kissed her lightly on the nose. "No, not really. It's kind of charming." He hugged her and was quiet. They sat like that for some time until he lifted her head up by her chin and kissed her once more—on the lips.

Morla was then taken in by him, and her blood immediately warmed in a way that she recognized: he grasped her middle and she was utterly ready, so ready, that when the ropes wrapped around her she was taken completely by surprise. She cried out and Henry's eyes went wide like black saucers.

They jerked on her and everything was so sudden that she almost couldn't process what was happening. She remembered when they had wrapped around her limbs like this before, and she could see everything clear in her mind like they were life-real; Henry was calling to her, panicked, as her shock took her over and began to draw her under.

The ropes jerked again on her and then they must have become apparent, on the outside, for Henry began to holler louder. He had gotten up from the bed and was watching as she cried out—using all of her real voice—and writhed against the bonds that held her.

She remembered like it was yesterday. Lo'jar—yes, that was his name—was watching her and when they saw each other, he started; but then he recovered and said, quietly, "Is that you?" He saw that it was when she came closer, and then in the darkness of their minds, linked in this way, he saw how she was held captive and he too remembered. He came forward and all the existence of Henry and the bed and house faded from Morla's vision.

Lo'jar tried to undo the ropes but they only constricted tighter, and Morla began to quiet. "What's holding you? Morla, what is it? Where are you?"

She gave him a panicked look and then the ropes jerked back, pulling her not just away from him, but from her own mind. She felt herself begin to detach, separating like water and oil tend to do, and fear immediately filled her.

As Henry watched it, she had gone still and no longer cried; ropes were wrapped all around her and they had her pressed against the bed. She seemed to be sinking into it, while the ropes appeared to lift from her. The gold and red bracer he had seen on her arm before, but never asked about, began to shake and rattle and he let out an unexpected cry when it splintered into pieces. On his wife's soft, bronze skin was a black mark that he couldn't quite make out; it seemed to be glowing with a dark energy and it moved up her arm like a spider, crawling and growing up to her shoulder and along her neck.

Then, she screamed again and the words out of her mouth he couldn't understand: they seemed like Orcish, mottled and all churned about; Henry had to step further back from the bed for an unbearable heat came from it. He opened the window and began to holler for help, in case anyone might be passing, and when he looked back, Morla was gone.


	14. Chapter 14

_Sorry it's been late, but Warcraft and other schoolness took over for a while. The night I have an essay due, the first one this semester, I thought--I'll procrastinate by editing! So I've had this done for a while. The next one won't come out until after the first because has been down, and it has good AFF content. So. Cool. Thanks for all the comments._**  
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**The Traitor**

**Chapter Fourteen**

Lo'jar sat with his mother at the table and was silent as she pondered what he had told her. The elf was small, of course, and she had cropped her hair recently so it was short around her enormous ears. There was a deep intelligence in the glow of her eyes, and so with this she said, "And that's it?"

The half-troll looked up in confusion. "What do you mean, is that it? Of course it is."

"You're willing to let her go, just like that?"

"Well, I have to!" Her little boy looked so frustrated, so tormented and torn, that his mother truly pitied him. He had so much of the look of his father, fuming and brushing his rogue hair away from his face, that she sighed and reached out to touch his arm.

"Now, come on." Lo'jar seemed to calm down and he regarded his mother carefully.

"It's her assignment. She has to be there, and who knows how long she'll stay; I don't want to leave her there, mother, I really don't, but that's all I can do. I've just got to go on and forget."

The elf watched him as he sighed and leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders; he stared off out the window with an irritated look on his attractive face. "I know how you're feeling," she told him, "and it isn't great. But don't give up."

Lo'jar nodded but didn't look at his mother. He seemed absent suddenly, and when he spoke, his voice was just as distant as his eyes. "I wanted to take care of her, mother. I've never felt that before, and I'll never feel it again. Knowing she doesn't need me is what fills me up with dread." He turned back to her and saw that she hadn't gotten older, not ever; his father had aged a little in the time he was alive, but his mother—she had always been the same, still little and lithe and would probably outlast her own son. "If something happens to her there, I won't be able to help. Even if she doesn't want me around, it's so hard to be away."

She found it horribly and somewhat tragically ironic that like his father, her son had found something so peculiar to love; it disturbed her a little, but admiring his half-elf, half-troll features, she couldn't imagine that he could have it any other way.

"I can only give you one piece of advice," she said. "Wait. Live your life as you should and wait. If you two were meant to be, then fate will make it so; otherwise, move on." She smiled at him and stood up, coming over to smooth back some of his wild hair. Lo'jar seemed indifferent to her ministrations, but he nodded his head and sunk back into the chair.

--

So Lo'jar did as he was told. After he stayed with his mother for a time and helped her to clear out the house, they left it to rot, not to be used again until a human family took refuge there, and then it became another stead on the map. They went to Booty Bay, separately; no one was surprised when they stayed together, for his mother, after some years, hadn't bothered to keep it a secret that she was involved with a troll. Most travelers weren't privy to this information, and those others that remained in Booty Bay were just as indifferent to anyone's lifestyle.

Lo'jar helped his mother like he had as a child, pressing the hides, salting them, and watching while his mother worked her magic. She was a much sought leatherworker and though most of her works she simply sold, others were commissions from rich adventurers.

He was there for two weeks before he announced that he was returning to Kalimdor, and would be staying with his cousins in Durotar and Mulgore for some time.

"Tell Koya I said hello," was all that she said when he took his bags and boarded the boat to Ratchet. From there, he got onto a caravan to Durotar, and was accepted back into Sen'jin Village.

Knowing something was amiss, Lo'jar's cousin and mentor approached him one day shortly after he had arrived. Lo'jar hadn't felt the same kinship with his relatives as he usually did, and Ishkuza, a well-known shaman, decided it would be right to ask what bothered him.

It was late in the evening and the rest of the extended family had gone to sleep or left to their homes; Lo'jar was sitting on the sand near the beach when his older cousin unexpectedly joined him.

Ishkuza drew his hand through his great white mohawk. "What's bothering you, cousin?"

Clearly taken by surprise, Lo'jar glanced up at the other shaman and replied defensively, "What do you mean? Nothing's bothering me. I'm great."

Ishkuza laughed. He patted the smaller troll's shoulder. "Whatever you say. Is it a woman?"

Lo'jar gaped. "How did you know?"

"I can sense these things," Ishkuza replied with a wink. "Tell me about it. Let your old cousin help."

Ishkuza had always known something was very peculiar about the boy that his late uncle had brought on a hot day nearly twenty years ago. He hadn't grown into his size and always remained looking strange; there was something that was simply striking about him, and Ishkuza hadn't been able to place his finger on it until he stumbled across a letter. It was from someone, and beside another in response; the pen was clearly Lo'jar's, but it was written in Darnassian—this much Ishkuza knew, though he couldn't read any of it. But he never mentioned it to his cousin. Lo'jar was a good enough boy with significant talent in shamanism; he would let him keep his secret.

Lo'jar told his cousin what he could, without revealing much of anything; he kept the plots of Orgimmar to himself, and of course couldn't reveal that she wasn't a troll woman. Ishkuza remained thoughtful until Lo'jar had finished, and then he patted his junior on the shoulder.

"I don't know what you're hiding, but this girl you speak of doesn't sound like any trolless I've ever come upon; she sounds quite unique, and that itself is worth holding on to. Have you considered contacting her?"

"I don't... I don't think I could, or should, where she is right now." The cousins looked at one another, and then Ishkuza laughed.

"I wish you could tell me the truth about it, but something tells me you can't. From what you've been able to say, this situation sounds too complicated for anyone but yourself to figure out. Just do what you think you should do. Your instincts are very strong, cousin, and I think they'll lead you right."

Lo'jar then took this advice very seriously, and only stopped briefly in Mulgore to see his surrogate uncle, aunt, and two cousins; Koya was naturally suspicious, after the incident she had witnessed in Hillsbrad; she had never been very tauren-like, a mistrustful character with a hot temper. But Koya's father, a good friend of Lo'jar's own departed father, knew the half-troll's background and besides Koya, who had found out by eavesdropping, no one else knew. Koya did not ask about what had happened to Lo'jar, and he didn't offer an explanation. Instead, she insisted that she go on with him, at least until Undercity.

So it was with this that Lo'jar found himself standing on the road outside of the border to Elwynn, lurking behind some trees and watching the one bored-looking guard that stood beside the road. It had been a month, or maybe two, and he figured that by now his girl had probably made her way to the human capital. Somehow he would make his way in and find her, wherever she might be—he had the advantage of speaking Common and Darnassian, and though it would be difficult to disguise himself, he could do it. Koya found a black rag and wrapped it around his head, polishing the silver marks around his eyes and emphasizing his usually-hidden eyebrows. She also bought sleek armor that would make him look smaller than he was, and when she was done, he looked quite impressively like an elven rogue.

"You're quite lucky," Koya told him as they prepared to separate. "Though you may never quite fit in either here or there, you can always pass through."

"I suppose," Lo'jar replied, and when he walked away off into the forest of the humans, Koya had a little bit of a gut feeling that she wouldn't be seeing her strange cousin for a very long time.

--

He was looking for a needle in a haystack, with nothing but his hands to help him. Thus he thought at first it was lucky when she contacted him in his sleep; however, upon looking closer, he realized exactly what was going on, and then he found himself inside a dark room with a human man sitting on the bed on the far side.

The blankets on the bed were all thrown about, and the man stood up when he saw Lo'jar come out of the darkness. They were both silent and stared at one another, and then after a moment the half-troll asked, realizing his complete vulnerability, "Where is she?" He was wearing only his pants, for he had been pleasantly asleep in his rented room in Stormwind.

The man, mouth still open with incredulity, lightly shook his head. "I.. I don't know. She was just here, and now she's gone."

Lo'jar growled. The scene in his mind had been intimately familiar: Morla reached out to him from the black void, body bound back with ropes, eyes wide and mouth open in a scream that he knew. He had only watched her and then she was sucked back in, licked up as if by a monster, and it seemed she had disappeared from here, too.

He went over to the bed and when he came closer, the human jumped back and carefully kept at least ten feet between them. Lo'jar put his hand down where he assumed his girl had been and the bed was still warm. "I don't know who you are, or why she was here with you, but I need to know: where is her box?"

Henry, who only had a vague mental grip on the situation, gaped at the clearly troll-like creature that somehow spoke his language fluently. "B-b-box?"

"Yes, the box! The wood one, with the stone inside it."

A few things had come together in Lo'jar's mind, and this was one of them. He wasn't about to let someone steal her away, not in the dark, and not without a fight from him. So he waited as the human, obviously afraid, bustled across the room to the dresser and began to look through the top three drawers. After a few moments he stopped moving and then looked back at Lo'jar, who was impatiently waiting.

"Is this what you're talking about?" Henry, ever obliging when his life was in danger, held up a small, stain-wood container with gold latches—the same box she had kept the necklace in, and the same box he was sure she had put the stone into. She hadn't told him, but Lo'jar had seen that Gothor had given it to her. What for, he didn't know, but there was something about it that he knew held a key to the mystery.

Lo'jar nodded and swiftly took the offending object, not bothering to look at Henry as he did so. However, when he reached to open it, the human cleared his throat and Lo'jar looked up at him.

"I don't know who you are or what you're doing here, but first, how do you know my wife has this, and second, what are you doing with it? I don't have time for this, whoever you are. I need to find her."

The whole situation struck Lo'jar as funny, and so he laughed; he laughed, and then laughed some more, and then he stopped very suddenly and growled like an animal. Wife, was it? She had certainly gone on quickly. It was a part of her job, to be sure, but Lo'jar had hoped she had had more pride than that. "She's nothing of yours, and she never will be. She was using you, stupid human," he ground out and turned away, quickly opening the box. He wasn't going to deal with this man's petty affairs.

"Pardon me?" Henry replied incredulously. "I don't know what you're trying to say, but she's my wife, and that's it."

"Think that if you like." Lo'jar found there what he was looking for: beneath the necklace was a letter and the little black stone, patterned with bright lines that seemed to pulse when he held it. "Turn on a light, will you?"

Henry was about to object to being ordered around when the half-troll looked at him with deadly eyes and carefully rubbed one of his sharp, white tusks. Henry gulped and went across the room to light the oil lamp, which he carefully brought over and set down on the small table beside the bed. Satisfied, Lo'jar raised the stone up to look at it closer.

Inside there seemed to be something, a liquid perhaps, that bubbled and fumed; the stone itself seemed to be more like a window, and the steam from inside fogged up the visual. He rubbed his hand over the surface and where his fingers touched, the gold-hinted veins widened and throbbed. "Morla, where are you?" asked the half-troll out loud. He rubbed the stone again and felt that it was warmer, but there was no significant response he could note.

He sat down on the bed and with a bit of a smirk noticed that the human was still very guardedly watching him, stationed on the far side of the room still by the dresser. Lo'jar then took the letter, which was very carefully addressed in Orcish to some address the half-troll couldn't understand, and ripped it open. The paper inside was long and it took him a moment to unfold.

"I send two gifts to you, and I will be quick about their description. The first is this simple human. Though it may please you to kill her, or do whatever you like to her, I ask you not to only because I believe—and so does Cairne Bloodhoof—that she is one of the greatest assets we can have. Her power is incredible and considered by some to be limitless, should she receive the right training. She is mute and mostly harmless to us: her brief history is outlined in a letter sent to me by Cairne, which in turn was given to him by one of the shamans in the village where she was found.

"The second item I give to you is this stone, which holds in it the power to utterly control her, should she either get out of hand; should you want to coerce her to do anything you please; or should you want to destroy her. She has done fine work already in infiltrating Alliance outposts, and is skilled in alchemy and her native power of the fel. I ask nothing of you, and only provide this tool to your cause. She has a manner of disguising herself amongst us that is convincing, should you need it of her.

"I leave you with that. To use the stone, my head shaman advisor has provided a text."

There was no signature, but Lo'jar knew the letter was from Thrall. He quickly passed over this note and went on to the smaller one included, which had drawings of the stone he held in his hand.

"These instructions not yet tested, but are as described:

"Press on this part and command; press on this part and then look inside, for a map; press on this part and then the creature is vulnerable."

Lo'jar looked to the second piece and turned over the stone until he found a dip in its surface, which he had attributed just to the stone, but now found his thumb fit there. Henry watched the whole thing with a frightened fascination, unsure of what to do with a creature that should appear to him hostile, but did not act as such. He as even more amazed when the odd looking troll took the stone away from his hands and looked into it.

"Remember this when I say it," Lo'jar told the human.

"What?"

"Remember what I say!" Henry quickly went to the desk and took some paper and a pen, not wanting to incur the troll's wrath, and waited.

After a moment Lo'jar began. "South of here, and then east, there is some grass... and a river. Across the river there is a path that goes through trees, and then a village; at the top of a hill is a mansion." He froze. Henry gave him an odd look, waiting for him to go on; but when he met the half-troll's gaze he was equally surprised.

"What is it?"

"I know." For a moment they both looked confused, and then Lo'jar seemed very suddenly to calm. His shoulders relaxed and his whole pose softened. They were both silent and for the first time, the half-troll felt uncomfortable around a human—he wouldn't kill it, but he couldn't just let him be. He knew it shouldn't have been difficult, but Morla wasn't just a human. This man was plain and unthreatening, though, and despite the surge of jealousy Lo'jar felt when his woman was claimed as this man's wife, he wouldn't just kill him.

"Who are you?" Henry said, and they locked eyes.

"Lo'jar."

"I'm Henry." Then Lo'jar began to put the things back into the box, which he tucked away in his bag. "I want to find her, too."

"This doesn't involve you," the half-troll responded immediately.

"But it does!" The certainty in his voice made Lo'jar flinch and look up at him once more. The human, Henry, was standing with his legs squared; his fists were clenched; his mouth was a thin line, for his lips and teeth were pressed closely together. "She's my wife, and I'm going to find out what happened to her. Obviously you know something."

"This is true," Lo'jar began, "but if anyone's going to find her, it's me." He stared at Henry, who couldn't hold the piercing, glowing gaze for more than a few seconds. "Anyway, I don't care about your silly human laws. She's mine."

With that, he turned around and went out the door and into the hall. He looked around in the dark and found stairs, which he took to the entryway; as he stepped outside, he heard the sound of things slamming and moving about, and then there were heavy steps. Henry came out after him carrying a bag and breathing heavily. "I'll follow you. Wherever you're going." Lo'jar let out a sigh and ran a hand through his hair, then turned away; he looked sideways at Henry.

"You don't know what you're getting into."

"Clearly not."

Lo'jar had two choices: he could debilitate him, or let him come and face his own doom; the second option was far more appealing. So they began to walk through Elwynn, under the cover of darkness. The moon was out but it wasn't even half-full, and Lo'jar imagined it cast a crescent shaped glimmer on the world, if looked at from high up. Henry seemed less inclined to ponder, though, and after they had gone for nearly a half-hour in silence, he spoke up, much to Lo'jar's chagrin.

"What are you, exactly? You speak Common, and you don't look much like a troll."

"How many trolls have you seen?"

Henry cleared his throat. "A few—they go by the village, but most don't try to come in anymore."

There were a few empty moments before Lo'jar replied, and he didn't once look over at the man he was addressing. "I'm only part troll."

"Then how do you know Morla?"

"What did she tell you?"

Balking at this, Henry didn't say anything; Lo'jar thought he had given up his questions, but then he said, "She told us she used to be a traveler, but her home and family were destroyed, so she left. She found work on our farm." He paused. "This wasn't anything like the truth, was it?"

Lo'jar couldn't help but laugh—the second time he had done so that evening, for it was all too deliciously ridiculous. With a malicious tone he told the human, "Of course not. Not to blow her cover or anything, but Morla is probably one of the greatest warlocks of our time." He snickered. "She also is not one of you. She belongs to me, and a big tauren who you probably wouldn't want to mess with." He heard Henry's steps falter, but he didn't stop; this was rather admirable.

"But, forget that for now. I really shouldn't be telling you anything. In fact, it would be best you forgot this conversation, and the rest of this night, as I plan to take my girl away with me once I've found her and rescued her from the grasp of evil." The half-troll winked, but Henry didn't find his comment funny at all.

"I don't know what you mean by that," he replied with a kind of quiet indignity, "but I think you are mistaken. She is my wife, and I have won her quite fairly; and besides, I don't think there is much that any woman would see in a creature like you, anyway."

This was quite the wrong thing to say, but Henry didn't appear to care. In one quick step Lo'jar turned on his heel and backhanded the offender in the face, knocking him sideways and then down when he lost his balance. Lo'jar breathed deeply twice.

"I love her more than any insignificant bug like you ever could." He turned back and kept walking down the path, like nothing had occurred. Henry quickly got to his feet and followed, deciding not to say anything further as he held his cheek; it throbbed painfully.

It was nearing dawn when they reached a short path that led off the main road, and they took it. Lo'jar reached the river at daybreak, and took off all his clothes save some short, thin breeches he wore underneath it all. Holding his garments over his head he nonchalantly crossed the river, and waited a few moments to dry before redressing. Henry, finding this sensible but not wanting to copy, waded through the water and came out on the other side with most of his lower half reasonably soaked through. He shivered because the morning was cold, but the slight breeze quickly dried him despite the wind chill it caused.

The walk from the shore to the village was short, but the atmosphere changed quickly from the bright greenery of Elwynn to the dreary, dying pines of Duskwood; even the air seemed to lessen in quality. Cloud cover seemed to appear out of nowhere and what should have been a bright, end-of-summer morning was dreary and dirty.

They stood at the end of the path, having stopped, and looked into the small hamlet that was just waking up. There did appear to be some activity, however, above the little village on the hill that sat above it. A man sat on horseback, with another horse beside him, apparently laden with packs; they were by the long, pillared entrance of the great house, and two women standing there were talking furiously.

Lo'jar then, crouching and jogging up beside one of the houses, stood behind it for a few moments; once he determined no one had any idea he was there, he continued on, jumping from house to house until he was far enough up the hill that he could see and hear what was going on at the top of it.

"Her uncle is going to want her back," one of the women was saying. "He's not going to just let you take her off like that, and destroy her."

The man atop the horse was older and had wild, grey hair. He laughed loudly, with a very definite malicious tune, and leaned down to look at the two insolent women: one older, and one only a girl. "I'll do whatever I please, whether or not the Borders have anything to do with it. They know this as well as I," he said, and then Lo'jar saw that it wasn't packs over the other horse, but Morla, hung over it on her belly with her arms and legs dangling on either side.

He heard a shuffling noise behind him and immediately turned, his staff in one hand; Henry was staring at him with wide eyes, clearly expecting to have a blow struck to his person. They were silent and kept the gaze for some seconds, and then Henry looked past the half-troll and saw the same scene. His mouth went open as if he were going to speak, so Lo'jar quickly grabbed him by the head and muffled him with one hand. Henry struggled for a moment but his adversary was much stronger, and once he had accepted this, he stopped moving and they both returned their eyes to what was going on ahead.

The two women stepped back from the horses and exchanged looks. Appearing satisfied, the man did an about-face and began to lead the two horses off. Lo'jar noticed he had a longish robe and attached to it was a cape, with a strange pattern emblazoned on the back; then, he noticed it and recognized it as the same odd black mark that had once been burned into Morla's wrist. Henry seemed to have caught this, too, and so they waited with an added measure of anxiety as the man went away from the mansion and toward the woods, which angled off into the depths of Duskwood.

Lo'jar was overcome by the desire to follow and he thought it would do little harm, so he dashed off from the house where they hid after the two horses; one of the girls standing just up the hill saw him and cried out. Henry quickly followed after the half-troll and as the other woman saw them, the two disappeared into the trees after the thundering horses.

Henry had to lengthen his stride to keep up with Lo'jar, who went on ahead of him far easier. However, this going was much more difficult when the half-troll raised his arms above his head and seemed to cast a spell: he shrunk, quite suddenly, and his whole body became slightly transparent; his form stretched and shrunk in the space of a fraction of a second, until he had become a ghostly, furry grey wolf. He then went on much faster and Henry was quickly lost, though he easily could follow the horses' hoofprints in the soft ground.

With his traveling form Lo'jar caught up to the horses and carefully kept alongside them, hidden by trees. After some time they slowed down to a walk. When Morla began to stir, however, in her position that seemed horribly uncomfortable, the man stopped the pair of horses and waited as she struggled to sit up, clearly drugged.

The girl accommodated the horse after a while and managed to sit up properly, though there was no saddle, and stared across silently at her white-haired captor. He smiled widely and Lo'jar could see with his clear wolf's vision that his teeth were yellowed and rough, and his lips thin and dry.

"Feeling well?" Morla gave no indication of a response, and the man laughed. "I know you recognize me. It was sweet how you were dressed in that page's uniform." He sneered. "I wondered for a while who you were working for, but I find I don't really care. What a coincidence that you ended up back to me again. I should really have just taken you when you came that time, but I wanted to see where you were going with your odd little life."

Morla shifted uncomfortably on the horse and looked around a little, but had no real idea where she could be and so she concentrated once more on the old man. Lo'jar silently snuck around them to view the confrontation from the side, and saw that while her expression was apprehensive, she looked on her captor with familiarity. However, this familiarity seemed to bring a fear to her, and her shoulders were drawn up and her back was board-straight when the man started to speak again.

"You remember me, don't you, pretty child? You sure have grown up. Where have you been hiding all this time?" She said nothing, of course, and he laughed again. It was a scratchy sound, like his lungs were black inside. "Of course you can't reply. I could fix that, but you don't have all your things with you. Maybe you lost them somewhere along the way—that would be best, because then I can just kill you."

Morla visibly flinched, but the movement was minute and the man seemed to miss it. He leaned down and took a pouch from her horse's saddle bag, which he opened and removed a small knife from; Lo'jar felt his heart clench in his chest and he went to move towards them when the man reached forward and took Morla by the hair; he moved quickly at first, but he slowed down nearly to a stop.

Morla had begun to glow red and she quickly removed herself from his grasp, and climbed off the horse. It was all done with ease and she took a few steps back from the whole situation. She looked to the side and Lo'jar realized that she had been aware of his presence the whole time, and so he transformed back into himself and they stared at one another in complete silence. Her eyes were emotionless and the half-troll found her completely unreadable.

The girl turned away and then was joined by her imp, who had appeared from thin air. Time, then, resumed, and the man nearly fell back from the shift in balance Morla's movement had caused. He saw her standing some feet away from where she had been only a millisecond before, and for a moment was surprised; he recovered quickly, though, and smiled. "Oh, good, you haven't put the things I gave you to waste." Morla shrugged her shoulders.

The man also dismounted and with a kind of calmness that seemed odd to Lo'jar—who was completely ignored by both of them—and led his horse to a tree, where he tied it. He went back to where he was standing before and looked over at the half-troll.

"You must be one of the ones who has been keeping her from me." He squinted his eyes. "Oh yes, I recognize you." He shifted his attention back to Morla and then held out his hands. "Do you know why you are here, right now, Bernadette Border?"

Morla shook her head. She still remained expressionless, and Alrash beside her took on the same pose as his wild little eyes boiled with fire.

"I have created you. You have something that is mine which I wish to take back. Your parents took you from me and then you disappeared into the world, only to reappear these many years later with a whole complex history behind you. But what you have used to get where you are, is not yours—it is a gift of mine that I need now in this time of trial."

Lo'jar walked up to stand beside Morla, who saw him from the corner of her eye but didn't turn to look, and rolled his shoulders. The girl made some signs with her hands that the man clearly couldn't understand, and then Lo'jar spoke.

"She has nothing of yours," he growled, clenching and unclenching his fist.

"How little both of you know." The white-haired man yawned. "My birth name is Timothy Bellem, but now I am Agram, by proper name." He stepped forward and Alrash met him in stride, flaming brighter and crackling with his energy. Agram smiled and then in his hand there was a shadowbolt, which instantly cast and caused the little imp to implode. Morla jumped back to avoid the searing ashes and sparks, though a few landed on her skin and burned her. "I know your memories are coming back to you. You will know that I have two options regarding you: I can go the more painful way and use my lovely tool which you took from me to extract what is mine from your weak little body, or I can go the easier way and merely destroy you."

Morla looked to Lo'jar and signed, which he interpreted: "She doesn't have it. She lost it long ago." He gave her a confused look but she didn't acknowledge him.

Agram laughed; then he raised one hand and there was a sharp cry. The human and half-troll looked over to see that Henry was frozen, eyes wide and mouth open. Then Morla gave in and ran over to where he was, holding her hand up to his cheek. She brushed his hair and when he gave no response, stuck in place, she turned back and her face was all drawn up and contorted with rage; her whole body seemed to take on a reddish glow and even from two yards away, Lo'jar could feel the heat coming from her.

The spark that had been born in her with the roaming hands of the horse trainer exploded then, and rose up without hesitation into a blazing flame, consuming her insides with fear, apprehension, and anger. They were emotions that Morla did not know she ought to avoid, and so she allowed them to consume her.

Agram looked pleased with her reaction and the half-troll saw that he was almost goading her, daring her to attack him; she rose up to the challenge and before Lo'jar could say anything to the contrary, to stop her from obliterating herself, an infernal howl came somehow from her body. The ground cracked around her and Lo'jar felt more helpless than ever, unable to stop her but unable to help.

There was a rippling in the ground and with it came the sound of demons. They came up from the cracks in the earth like smoke escaping and in the air they coagulated, forming great red bodies. Lo'jar saw the man's mouth slightly purse with apprehension, but he hid it well. The monsters hovered nearly fifteen feet, hissing and flaming but making no other noise; Morla was fixedly still, watching her enemy.

"You still have one last chance," Agram said, and when he nodded his head one of the demons began to writhe and wriggle, his body seeming to come apart the same way that it had come together. "Produce the item. I know you still have it."

Morla grinned a feral grin and the demon righted itself, surprising even Agram. She shook her head and the two creatures edged forward; however, their advance was halted by two flames. They were yellowish-orange, glittering at the bottom with a purplish-black. They hurled each from his hands, though he did not move them, and attacked each of Morla's monstrous minions. The creatures howled and wrestled each with their attacker, but it quickly appeared that they were no real match.

"It's quite amazing," Agram said, his voice somehow drifting up and over the great infernal noise of the hell-creatures' battle. "You've taken my small token and grown it; and while this is impressive, you are no match for me."

Lo'jar couldn't help but wonder what the man was speaking of—what "small thing" he might be wanting. After a few moments, where neither opponent said a word, and the red beings began to fade out from the overwhelming power of their attackers, Lo'jar realized it.

He reached into his bag and took out the box; Morla saw this and looked at him then—for the first time since he had come out into the open, it seemed—with wide eyes. Her mouth opened and she signed, "Don't do it, don't open it." This halted the half-troll.

"What is it for?" he signed back to her.

She only shook her head; Agram, annoyed at being ignored in such a way, only had to flick his hand. The grass around them flamed up and created two small circles, one greater around Morla, and another smaller keeping Lo'jar imprisoned.

"Just what do you want?" the half-troll cried. "What do you want from her? What have you given her? This girl hasn't done anything wrong!"

Agram howled with laughter; finished with their task, the two balls of fire drifted back to him and hovered, dancing in circles and waiting for a command. "Oh, she hasn't, you are right about that. But she owes me something, you see—this girl's father had a great debt to me, and to pay it, he offered me this small child of his. I imbued her with a gift, one that she nor her family could quite appreciate." He walked towards Morla, who was nearly invisible behind the great flames that surrounded her.

"I was going to breed a tool, you see: one that would aid me in my great plan to rid the world of those disgusting creatures we call orcs. But the child was too wild and took the gift I gave her too closely into herself. The village grew afraid of her, you see, and then her insolent parents—fearing retribution by their own traitorous family—took her and went off into the wilds, where I assume they met their end." He grinned and Lo'jar saw those horrible, yellow teeth again; greenish black was growing between each of his incisors. "Now I wish to take back what is mine, so I might accomplish my goals."

A look of realization seemed to cross Morla's face, and when she looked at Lo'jar, she appeared to be quite afraid. "What is it?" he signed.

"I'm afraid," she replied, hands shaking, "I may never see you again." She looked quickly over at where Henry was, frozen in place, and the terrified expression grew deeper.

Lo'jar was at a loss, and she offered no more; instead, she turned to the man and her imp reappeared, all in pieces; the bits repaired themselves and the creature leaped forward, free of the flames, and hastily began to speak. It was clear that Morla was controlling the small creature, and its tiny, grating voice held her own words.

"I remember you now, and your foulness; I am familiar with your work—we have been following you for a time, and now that I have seen your identity, I know there is very little I can do. I have had faith in myself for years, but as both you and I know, the child cannot grow stronger than the parent; I contain only a small portion of what you have, and so I do not attempt further to fight you." Agram had a self-satisfied, sneering smirk on his wrinkly grey face.

Then, something strange happened: her eyes that had been hollow and afraid grew fiery once more. She raised her hands up and the imp, dancing wildly, cried, "I know of the plague you plan to unleash, and I will not allow it; there are many who will stop you, and though you might be rid of me, you will never pass these obstacles which stand in your way; we know what you know; try as you like, no one person can take on the whole Horde." The imp laughed, and laughed, and Agram's own smirk seemed to fade from his face.

"Do you know where I've been? I've been a traitor. I know the secrets of the Horde, and at this moment, I have sent a servant to the cities of Orgrimmar, of Undercity, and Thunder Bluff; they are on the alert. My family isn't here—those two horrible people were not parents, and they deserved to be ripped limb from limb by that lion, doing my vengeance. There is nothing you can do to me that hasn't already been done by the humans."

Then, Lo'jar held the stone in his hand, and it was hot like a coal. He and Morla exchanged a look, and then suddenly there was a roaring sound from below them. The stone grew hotter and when he tried to drop it, it lifted into the air and Agram saw it.

At that moment the earth broke apart, just a little, in the sense deeper than the surface; Morla walked through the fire and took Lo'jar in her arms, as if he were the child and she the parent. Then they were lifted away and disappeared. Agram remained, standing and watching the flames as they kept on.

Henry unfroze and looked at the demon man standing only some yards away. Where his wife and that strange troll-thing had been, there was no one; the untied horse had run off, and the tied one had passed out, probably from fear. Agram smiled at him and Henry wondered if he had somehow been dragged into a situation far beyond his realm of existence.

In that, he was right.


	15. Chapter 15

_I have been done an incredible favor by an incredible artist--Aida has made a beautiful rendering of Lo'jar that you can find here: _akai. de-illusion. net / doodles/ lojar. jpg_ (just remove the spaces). He appears here much like I imagined him. Thanks so much, Aida! You're fabulous._

**The Traitor**

**Chapter Fifteen**

"Give me that," the imp told Lo'jar, holding out his hand. The half-troll gave him a confused look, but Morla only nodded her head and so he obeyed. He dropped the stone to the creature and it held it for a moment, pondering, before jogging back to his master.

They were standing somewhere very dark, though the moon grinned at them from above. Lo'jar couldn't imagine how it was night again; he hadn't passed out, and so time couldn't have gone by so quickly. He was distracted, however, by Morla.

She held the stone up to her and looked through it, fascinated by what she saw there. After a time she signed to Lo'jar, "We are in Moonglade. It is still today."

He gave her a confused look. "I asked that someone bring us here. I think he will arrive soon."

Around them were a few trees, and he realized they stood on a path; to either side were small trees, merely saplings, with their upper branches wrapped around bright, glowing lights. These light posts ran all down the path, which seemed to lead toward a small arrangement of buildings.

"It took us that long to get here?"

"No, it's just before morning here. It's a different part of the world." She pointed off to the distance and sure enough, there was a little glow of sun at the horizon. Struck by the deja vu of it all, and the fatigue in his legs, and the turning over of his stomach, Lo'jar sank down so he was crouching. He took a few deep breaths and then heard a voice calling to them.

"Are you Morla?" When Lo'jar looked up, though he heard light footsteps, he couldn't see anyone approaching them; then, looking down, he saw a gnome. Her hair was pink and short, all wild about her head; she was clearly a warlock, by the wand she held in her hand and the voidwalker that trounced on behind her. However, the size of her blue eyes was far more surprising than anything else about her.

Morla nodded her head and the gnome jumped excitedly. "I'm glad it worked! We responded as quickly as we could to your message." Then, curious, she leaned around the human and saw Lo'jar. "Ah, well, there were two of you. Even better! Now, come on." She gestured with her hand for them to follow; Morla obeyed, and Lo'jar thought he would, too.

They had been summoned to Moonglade. As it was told, a little blue spirit had arrived, who had actually been a demon, and was almost attacked until it proved itself to be harmless. It cried out, "Help! Help! Need a portal! Will pay upon arrival!" The gnome, Tribble, had luckily been there; kindly she agreed and the spirit gave her the coordinates. She hadn't been sure her summon would work, but she had gathered some help and was glad it did. After delivering the message, the spirit had poofed out of existence.

They went into the building ahead where a few vendors were set up, obviously leading a long and monotonous life. The three of them sat at a table and were offered food, but Morla declined; however, Lo'jar jumped on it and hastily ordered bread and roast.

Morla handed over two gold pieces to the other warlock, who easily took the offering and smiled. "I'm glad you got here all right," and Lo'jar thought this creature was peculiar for her trade. But she seemed content enough, and her voidwalker lounged without expression behind her. "If you ever need a favor again, just contact me, however you did," she said with a laugh, and hopped up from her chair. She tipped an invisible hat. "Good luck to both of you." With that, she bounded off.

Lo'jar said nothing, and they didn't look at one another when the food he ordered came. He ate and Morla had a little, but her stomach was turned over. They found the inn after a time and got a room, and once inside, she went and got sick, closing the bathroom door behind her.

--

When she felt better, Morla came out and sat on the bed, because there was only one. It seemed they were in inns often together, in this kind of setting; she found this odd for a few seconds, but when she looked at him, she thought that she knew him in a room, and hardly anywhere else. The way she had come to like him was in a room, and by no fault of his own she had come to dislike him outside of it. As they sat there all cramped together, she liked him more than ever before, and so she had to restrain herself and sit very still.

After a while Lo'jar looked at her and she was forced to return his gaze. "What happened?"

Morla sighed deeply. She took the stone out of her pocket and turned it over in her hand, and rubbed her throat; then she tucked it away and leaned forward so she rested her head in her palms, elbows propped on her thighs.

"I can remember only a little, but some of his words created more. When I was very little, just when I was born—I can remember this part—my parents told me that I would no longer be theirs; Bellem was taking me to be his assistant, or something. He took me for a while and then gave me back, and said he would be watching me, for he wouldn't need me for some years yet.

"I know Alrash; when I was young, I began to bring him up and we would play because none of the other children liked me. This frightened everyone, and one time when a dog attacked me, it lit on fire and exploded.

"The village began to grow wary of me. We lived with my aunt, uncle, cousin, and grandparents. They were afraid of what I was becoming and what the other villagers would do should they let me stay, so they exiled myself and my parents. My parents were bitter and decided they would take me far away, and leave me.

"The plan backfired when the lion came." She sighed and pulled her knees up onto the bed, and held them with one arm. "That man was him, Bellem, Agram, whatever. I can only imagine that he's been looking for me."

"What did you mean, when you said you knew what he was doing? What did he say about the orcs?"

Morla laughed silently. "Zamah and I have been tracking for some time the Dreadfall herb—the poison in that spider, all that time ago. Remember?" Lo'jar only nodded and the girl took on a wistful look. "There is wild Dreadherb, and then there is the Dreadfall, which the forsaken were farming to try to poison the humans with; they gave up, though, but it was still being farmed. We found out that the herb had been changed and engineered to target orcs, and someone was taking the herb and hoarding it somewhere. They were planning mass genocide."

"And now you know who was planning it?"

Morla nodded and signed, "And so does everyone else now, too."

He looked puzzled at this. "I'll never be able to go back, now. I've let all the cats out of the bag, and it doesn't matter anymore. Everyone will know who I am—rather, who I was. They'll all be vaccinated, or something like that, or an antidote will be made... it doesn't really matter." Very slowly, her eyes grew wet and before Lo'jar could do anything tears streamed from her eyes. "Now I'll never belong, not anywhere. I could disguise myself and go back, but that's all I would be—in disguise." Her signs were becoming harder to understand because she had begun to shake. She hunched over and soundless sobs began to escape, and it was the only time he had ever seen her cry in the time he knew her, and he had a vague feeling it would be the only time again for the rest of her born life.

Calmly the half-troll stood up and went over so he was kneeling on the bed behind her. He put his arms over her shoulders and carefully, he pulled her back against him so she was flush against his chest. "I'll never be able to go back," she told him with her hands, before she clapped them together and, with another heaving sob, crushed them between her knees and fell apart.

Lo'jar tightened his grip and began to rock the girl back and forth, waiting for her to wear herself out. She did so after some minutes and with tears still dripping down her face, she fell asleep and hiccuped in her unconsciousness.

He lifted her up and placed her at the top of the bed; he realized she was wearing pajamas and so he left her in her clothes, and tucked her into the blankets. Then he left to explore.

--

Lo'jar came back in about mid-afternoon, and wasn't surprised to find Morla was still asleep.

It pained him to see her, remembering that pathetic human's words—"She's my wife." He couldn't imagine it was true, but somehow he knew it was; that hurt even more.

Moonglade was a beautiful place. Even when the sun was up there was a darkness about it—though it wasn't a gloomy one, like Duskwood, but a mysterious glow that reminded him of Ashenvale, and the other lands of the night elves. There were both tauren and elven kind there, all living and going about amongst one another like they were of the same kin. It was a peculiar kind of habitation, but it had a strange pleasing quality, and walking amongst the soft buildings, he felt more comfortable than he had ever been.

He came over and sat down on the bed, and slowly shook Morla awake. She batted his hand away at first and then seemed to realize where she was, so she quickly sat up and looked at him.

"Are you going to stay?" he asked, after a moment. Her eyes went wide and her mouth opened and closed, as if she wanted to speak, but knew she couldn't. She sat back against the headboard and ran a hand through her hair.

"I want to go back," she signed, not looking up at him. "I left Henry there—something horrible will have happened to him." Lo'jar could only nod in acquiescence. "But I have to send a message first."

--

Lo'jar didn't want to stay, really, with her. He went out of the room when she sent off her messenger. He didn't deny that she would have to face the man—otherwise, he would chase her all over the world until she fell to pieces. Now that she was strong, and Agram had seen her strength, he would want her more than ever.

The half-troll wanted to follow her all over the world, but he couldn't. He felt a feeling of defeat that was long-coming; it crippled him and he sat down outside the door, where he thought and thought. Eventually he stood and went back in.

"I've sent for Clef," she signed to him. "He'll arrive soon."

They went about the rest of the day in silence, and Lo'jar found himself avoiding looking at her directly. The time was approaching and though he felt horribly irresponsible, he couldn't avoid his conclusion.

That evening they ate at the small restaurant-type corner of the main building. When they finished, he sat forward in his small chair and spoke. "I can't go with you from here. I have to leave you, and that's all I can do. I do regret meeting you, and I still do. I love you, and there is very little I can do about that. I'm stuck, you see, because this strange sad human claims you are his wife; you have told me off and I keep those words, and I don't know if I can ever turn back on them. I don't need you and you don't need me, so I'm going to leave, and I hope you don't ever need me again." Morla was plain-faced through it and offered no response when he was done talking. They stared at each other, neither making a move, until she lifted one hand to the tabletop and signed, "Good bye."

Lo'jar got to his feet and pushed the chair in, and left some silver on the table for the food. He went over to the wall where he had put his things and tucked his sword into his belt, slung his shield over his back, and put on his helmet. Without looking at her once he turned and left the building. Morla couldn't comprehend the fact that she might never see his strange, handsome face ever again.

--

When Clef received the little messenger, who came in through his window as he worked on his small, improvisational worktable, he was pleased and surprised. He set down the small necklace he had been crafting for nearly a month, and looking over it, thought it was quite the coincidence.

He gathered his things together and hastily told his boss he was going; the old orc didn't mind, for Clef did his job well and soundly. "Take all the time you need," he said.

He carried only one bag full of things and spent the next two days traveling from city to city by wyvern, until he found himself in the dark glades of the druids.

There were many of his kind there and Clef didn't for a moment think it odd, like Lo'jar had, that the tauren and elves lived in harmony here.

Morla was waiting outside the building on a bench, and she looked like she had been sitting there for some time, as it was mid-afternoon. She looked at him but didn't move to sign or anything, so he sat down beside her and carefully hugged the fragile thing. She looked downtrodden and beaten, and her face was paler than he remembered; her hair was also longer and hung freely, not tied back like it often had been. He took her loose locks with one great hand and lifted it; it fell away softly, like water, to her neck and shoulders.

Then, she turned to him and told him with her hands everything that had happened, up to that very moment, when she ground her teeth and showed more emotion at that moment than any other time he had seen her. Clef had the vague feeling that her life was coming to a head, and she was living now as she would never live, and had never lived before. There was a sense of inevitability though, that worried him.

"I w-will go," he told her then, "a-a-anywhere you g-go. Forget a-a-about him, that t-troll." Morla gave a swift nod. "We'll go r-r-rescue this man, then?"

She laughed then and took the stone from her pocket, turning it over in her hands. "Did you hear anything in Orgrimmar?" she signed.

The tauren thought for a moment and then shook his head, and she left the conversation at that. They decided to wait some more days and think of a plan; Morla didn't know where they had taken Henry, though she concluded that the best place to look would be the mansion on the hill. This would fulfill a number of purposes: the first being to free Henry, a rather sad casualty of the whole affair; the second to be rid of Agram, who was following her in her dreams; and three, to get some well-needed revenge on the family that had abandoned her.

--

The night before they were to leave, Clef went into the bath and took off the three enormous buckets of water he had boiled before. "D-do you want?" Morla looked up from where she was working on the table, making out of wood the same pieces they played games with before. He couldn't help but pity her as she tenderly put the finished pieces away into a box, and then got to her feet and nodded her head. She followed him into the bath.

They hadn't bathed together in a long time, longer than Morla knew. It wasn't the same fun event as it had been, tossing water at one another and playing with the little duck toys they made. Now Morla sat behind the big ox and scrubbed his fur, lathering it and watching all the dust from his trip come off into the water. When she was finished she leaned forward so her elbows were resting on his shoulder blades and began to braid his hair, washing it and then starting at the very top. When she finished he shook his head and all the loose water came off, splashing Morla and the whole small bathroom.

Clef took one of the water containers off the edge of the tub and set it down, dipping in both his great hands and rubbing the little soft girl all over. He washed her with soap and was mesmerized by how she had changed; her skin was as smooth as ever, but she had marks of character all over: there were red lines on her back from when the trainer had pushed her against the wood fence; she had light scrape scars all over from a number of incidents, all surrounding the horse farm. The tauren sighed and ran his hand from her head down her back, lightly massaging the tense muscles there as he did so.

They crawled out of the tub when they were done and, not bothering with anything but drying off, they made sure their things were ready to go the next day and climbed into bed. Clef had an odd feeling in his belly that things would change, even more than they had; she would never return to Orgrimmar, and he would most probably never leave it. He felt that he should have been sad about losing the most important being in his life, but she was going to go on, if she made it, to better things.

--

Sharp had been alarmed when he didn't hear from Morla, and his private concern only increased when a little monster popped up out of the floor first thing one morning and began hastily talking.

"Sharp, it's me, Morla," it told him. "I don't know where you are in your research, but I've found the man who was tending the herbs, and his intent is fairly clear. I'm going to try to get rid of him, but should I fail, this is where you can find him. I tell you this first because I trust you; any information you feel would be useful to share, do so." The demon climbed up onto the table and took paper and pen, drawing out a map; it finished quickly and handed it over to the undead man. "You can find him here. He's a mighty foe, and should I fail, I will leave it up to you to handle the situation."

"How will I know if you fail?"

The demon bubbled and rolled over, and them straightened its horns. Its two-pronged tongue flicked out when it replied, "I will inform you."

The creature said nothing more. "What, then, of your mission?"

"There may be hope," it replied, "but I have sent this same messenger to Undercity, where I have informed Lady Sylvanas of the important things that have occurred, violating the privacy of Zamah, Cairne, Thrall and myself, all together; but I feel that not only is this the best choice to protect the orcs, but for the Horde, as well. My wish is that this farm might be destroyed and should I fail, a force might succeed where I didn't.

"This is your opportunity to be a hero," the demon went on, "for should my house of cards all fall down, you will be the one to tell the story and show Thrall where this man might be found, and who he is."

"Well, then—who is he?"

The demon smiled. "Thank you for everything. His name is Timothy Bellem—but he may be known by Agram. Should I learn more about him, I will inform you."

Then the creature blew up, flaming and then spitting a few sparks, before it crumbled into small coal bits on the table that were still hot.

The door opened and Gothor came in. "I heard voices. Everything all right?"

"Oh, yes," Sharp replied, quickly brushing the ashes off the table, "I just had a little mishap." The shaman gave him a suspicious look, but left anyway.

--

Matheas, however, was a different story. The messenger that arrived was swift about his message, and it asked only that the warlock come as close as he might to Duskwood, and wait for her call; she trusted him, above all others, and should he want to aid her, he ought to respond to her messenger immediately.

Matheas, privately, couldn't imagine what his prize pupil had found, or how she thought he could aid her in any way should he want to. With his infiltrating personality he had first found about the message to Sylvanas, who tucked it away and wished at first not to consider it, until Thrall called on she and Varimathras to act. Then everything broke up and most everyone in the upper circles of authority knew of Morla, and what had been accomplished—but always with infamy comes celebrity, and as the few short days passed, the story of the traitorous human had spread amongst both Alliance and Horde.

This defeated her ultimate purpose, and Matheas felt a sense of betrayal by her exposition. He had trained her to be the greatest weapon the Horde could have, and she went on a vigilante mission; what else could she need? The herb farm was destroyed and antidotes made, should anyone attempt to poison the orcs. It was a cry, "Wolf!" and the warlock felt a deep disappointment.

However, Morla was still one of the only creatures he had come to care for in both his life and death, and despite his little budding resentment, he couldn't leave her to some crisis. With a sigh he told the little demon still waiting on the desk for him to say something, "Tell her I will come. I will find her."

The devil spun excitedly and disappeared.

--

Had Morla known what she would encounter in the village of Blandoak, she probably wouldn't have gone—but she couldn't remember its name, not to mention the people who lived there.

The plan was simple. She would go into town, dressed only as she was, and offer herself up to the man in the mansion at the top of the hill. She imagined that first, they should take her to wherever they were keeping Henry, so that they might keep her, or torture her, or whatever Agram planned to do. Then she would give the signal, a little bauble, and Clef and Matheas would come in like knights on horses with armor and lances. At least, this was all hoping.

Morla had gotten word of Matheas's arrival, and so she and Clef sat at the edge of the woods away from the village to wait. Here she pondered her future and a number of other large things, all grandiose ideas that had never entered her mind before her life began to change so drastically. Not that the death of her parents hadn't been an event of epic proportions to her, but it was low on the food chain.

They didn't speak for most of the morning, but when the sun began to rise higher in the sky, Morla asked about any food. Luckily, Clef had packed up some bread and butter, which when they pulled out saw was melted; instead, they covered the soft loaf with a seasonings spread that had been given to them by a vendor in Moonglade as a promotional item.

"Is he r-r-really going to be here?"

Morla nodded. "Matheas would never go back on his word." Sure enough, half an hour later they saw the undead man walking through the trees, making absolutely no noise but still looking quite unsure. "These are pretty dangerous lands for us," he commented dryly as he approached them. It was the first time Morla had seen his minion, and the growling felstalker looked quite perilous. It hissed at Clef when they approached the group; however, when Morla came out from behind the tauren and looked at it, the creature became quite deadly silent and they exchanged looks.

"Now, it's not an animal, Morla. Demons aren't to be..." but he was too late. "...Demons aren't to be petted," he finished.

She was kneeling down and stroking the terrifying little monster's writhing back, which was alive with the dozens of black worms coming out of it like a diseased corpse. Both Clef and Matheas gaped as the creature snapped its jaws and happily sat. Even this made the undead man shudder, but Morla eventually recovered her senses and stood up once more.

Quickly she relayed her plan, and though Matheas didn't much like it, he couldn't see any better idea. Morla signed, "I really don't care what happens to me here. There isn't much they can do to me. If I lose, which I may just, then I'll offer up my powers freely. Once I haven't got what he wants anymore, he'll let me go."

"You can never be sure of things like these," Matheas told her with an irritated tone. "You can't be sure of what any evil person tells you, don't you know?" He shook his head. "Anyway, don't think of it this way. Have faith in your powers, honestly—if you can't, nobody can." This made Morla give a bit of a silent laugh and she made the motion of wiping her forehead from sweat that wasn't there.

Matheas didn't ask any more questions and so, giving Clef a great hug in case things went wrong—which they were bound to do—Morla got up and stuffed her hands into her pockets. Her friends exchanged a worried look as she went off into the tired old village to look for her captured husband.


End file.
